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SCHOOLBOY  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.    [Out  of  print.] 

AN  AMERICAN  AT  OXFORD.     Illustrated,  i2mo,  $1.50 
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HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


HUSBAND 

and 
THE    FORBIDDEN   GUESTS 


HUSBAND 

and 

THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

Ctoo 


BY 


JOHN   CORBIN 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CAVE  MAN,"  "THE  FIRST 

LOVES  OF    PERILLA,"   "AN   AMERICAN 
AT   OXFORD,"    ETC. 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
fiitocrsibc  press  Cambribge 
1910 


LIBRARIAN'S  FUND 


COPYRIGHT,    1910,   BY  JOHN   CORBIN 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  November  iqio 


WIFE 

A   PREFACE 


WIFE 

A    PREFACE 

WHEN  a  very  wise  play-broker  read  the  comedy 
which  is  published  in  the  following  pages,  she  paid 
it  the  compliments  due  to  the  occasion  and  then 
exclaimed :  "  BUT  —  where  shall  we  ever  find  a 
manager  daring  enough  to  produce  a  play  on  such 
a  theme?"  The  fact  which  would  put  managerial 
daring  to  rout  was  that,  as  the  play-broker  as 
sumed,  the  theme  was  obnoxious  to  women.  Not 
that  it  was  immoral,  or  in  any  way  improperly  sug 
gestive.  That  would  have  been  a  minor  obstacle, 
as  is  well  known  to  all  observers  of  the  mod 
ern  feminine  mood.  The  heavily  capitalized  "but" 
referred  to  the  fact  —  or  rather  to  the  broker's 
assumption  —  that  the  play  presents  the  American 
woman  in  an  unfavorable  light.  "  It  may  be  real," 
she  added  ;  "  but  it  is  not  what  the  managers  and 
the  public  want  to  think  is  real.  You  see,  the  wave 
of  popularity  is  on  the  constructive  and  optimistic 
side." 

If  the  theme  of  the  play  were  quite  what  the 


viii  WIFE 

broker  assumed,  the  conclusion  is  too  obvious  to 
be  called  wisdom.  It  is  axiomatic.  Not  only  in 
drama,  but  in  all  of  the  arts,  the  final  arbiter  in  the 
American  world  is  woman.  And  for  some  reason  — 
a  brave  man  once  said  it  is  because  of  a  defective 
sense  of  humor  and  an  imperfectly  detached  intel 
ligence —  women  do  not  enjoy  contemplating 
themselves  in  an  unfavorable  light.  To  ask  them 
to  do  so,  even  for  the  brief  space  of  a  dramatic 
representation,  is  to  them  cruelly  destructive,  bru 
tally  pessimistic. 

The  comedy  in  question,  as  it  happened,  belied 
the  broker's  prediction.  The  first  manager  who 
read  it  agreed  on  the  spot  to  produce  it ;  and  the 
first  actress  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Clorinda 
Wayne  paid  an  advance  for  the  right  to  imper 
sonate  her  —  a  percentage  of  which,  to  my  sorrow, 
fell  to  the  play-broker.  But  after  all,  an  axiom  is 
an  axiom. 

The  first  man  of  the  theatre  to  enunciate  this 
one  was  Bottom  the  Weaver.  And  I  have  double 
cause  to  hearken  to  him  now,  for  both  of  the  plays 
I  am  publishing  present  the  American  woman  in 
a  light  different  from  that  which  she  herself  would 
perhaps  have  chosen.  Let  me  not  fright  the  ladies 


WIFE  ix 

out  of  their  wits  !  I  will  roar  them  as  gently  as  any 
sucking  dove ;  I  will  roar  them,  an  't  were  any 
nightingale.  I  have  even  aggravated  the  titles  of 
the  plays,  so  that,  if  nobody  tells  on  me,  the  first 
will  seem  to  be  about  American  men,  and  the  sec 
ond  about  American  children. 

And  I  am  not  insensible,  I  hope,  of  the  just 
claims  of  our  wives  and  sisters.  The  ideal  of  my 
adolescence  took  form  from  the  Gibson  girl,  so 
chastely  sculpturesque,  even  though  a  little  out  of 
drawing.  My  young  man's  fancy  kindled  to  the 
flush  radiance  of  the  heroines  of  Mr.  Harrison 
Fisher,  limned  in  all  the  effulgence  of  the  color 
printing-press.  And  these  were  only  the  outward 
and  visible  signs.  It  was  a  new  ideal  that  we  all 
worshiped  —  a  rare  spiritual  light  until  then  un 
dreamed  of.  Inwardly  as  outwardly,  the  American 
girl  was  the  paragon  of  the  nations.  As  boys  we 
had  had  no  such  illusion ;  vague  fears  mingled 
with  our  misty  loves,  contempt  with  our  adoration. 
But  as  young  men  we  saw  a  new  light.  Male  and 
female  were  no  longer  the  dearest  foes.  In  every 
atom  of  body  and  soul  they  were  one.  The  duel 
of  the  sexes  was  obsolete ;  the  union  of  the  future 
was  a  comradeship. 


x  WIFE 

Even  more  fervently  than  we,  young  women 
have  followed  this  new  light.  There  is  no  mannish 
activity  to  which  they  have  not  aspired  —  or  con 
descended.  As  the  modern  athletic  movement  has 
brought  us  sport  after  sport,  they  have  gone  in  for 
each  with  an  ardor  that  fell  short  of  no  detail  in 
the  appropriate  costume.  Yet  they  have  not  been 
able  to  raise  us  men  to  an  enduring  basis  of  com 
radeship  in  athletics.  It  would  be  hard  to  tell  the 
reason ;  but  the  melancholy  fact  is  that  as  sport 
after  sport  has  swept  over  the  land,  each  in  sub 
siding  has  left  its  women-adherents  for  the  most 
part  on  the  club  veranda,  taking  tea  in  furbelows 
and  despair,  while  the  men  are  out  in  the  open, 
crudely  sweating  and  rejoicing  in  abandoned  dis 
array. 

Then  women  learned  to  talk  of  the  stock  market 
or  the  wheat-pit,  of  national  politics  and  of  maga 
zine  exposures,  and  with  a  brilliancy  amazingly 
unhampered  by  a  very  natural  lack  of  information. 
Sad  to  relate,  the  man  seldom  responds  in  kind. 
Heaven  knows  how  our  society  manages  to  be 
even  as  intellectual  as  it  is!  His  obtuseness  is 
generally  laid  to  the  fact  that  he  is  the  tired  busi 
ness  man.  He  is.  But  if  he  tells  the  truth  as  to  his 


WIFE  xi 

social  lassitude — and  why  should  he  ? — it  is  n't  his 
business  that  makes  him  tired. 

His  failure  to  rise  to  the  high  estate  of  comrade 
ship  has  left  our  women-folk  in  a  position  of  tragic 
isolation.  They  are  far  beyond  the  humble  conso 
lations  of  the  "  three  Cs,"  which  the  Kaiser  of  late 
recommended  as  a  salve  to  the  feminine  Zeitgeist 
—  church,  cooking,  and  children.  They  even  pulled 
a  wry  face  when  a  recent  President  commended 
one  of  this  outmoded  trinity.  The  American  woman 
is  in  the  position  of  a  goddess  who  has  been  raised 
to  a  pedestal  and  then  deserted  by  those  who  have 
raised  her.  It  is  impossible  not  to  look  down 
upon  the  world ;  yet  what  satisfaction  is  there  in 
looking  down,  if  the  world  goes  on  about  its  busi 
ness  unheeding  ?  In  "  Man  and  Superman "  the 
Statue  of  the  Commander,  having  come  off  his 
pedestal,  walks  lightly  and  with  a  graceful  sense 
of  relief  among  quite  common  mortals ;  but  the 
Commander  was  a  man,  and  Mr.  Shaw  has  a  sense 
of  humor. 

We  have  been  speaking  of  the  American  woman 
as  we  all  delight  to  conceive  her  —  of  the  woman 
of  education  and  leisure ;  but  in  wage-earning 
also  —  as  mill-hands,  shop-girls,  and  typewriters  — 


xii  WIFE 

women  have,  so  to  speak,  claimed  comradeship. 
These  women  are  on  the  whole  quite  as  beautiful, 
and  dress  in  quite  the  same  styles  —  though  their 
charms  are  unblazoned  on  magazine  covers.  They 
are  even  more  independent,  for  they  largely  feed 
and  clothe  themselves ;  and  they  have  precisely  the 
same  attitude  of  equality  with  their  commoner 
men-folk  —  of  equality  tinged  with  a  tragic  supe 
riority. 

Statistics  tell  of  their  vast  and  increasing  num 
bers,  and  the  national  mind  is  much  troubled  on 
their  account.  But  statistics  add  a  fact  which  has 
received  far  less  attention :  the  average  age  of 
wage-earning  women  is  only  twenty-two.  Of  mid 
dle-aged  women  there  are  thousands,  but  of  girls, 
even  children,  there  are  tens  of  thousands.  No  doubt 
industrial  women  are  a  permanent  phenomenon, 
and  an  increasing  phenomenon — though  not,  as 
Dr.  Edith  Abbott  has  discovered,  increasing  rela 
tively  to  men.  But  as  individual  wage-earners  they 
are  transients  merely. 

This  is  due  in  part,  perhaps,  to  the  well-estab 
lished  fact  that  as  a  rule  they  have  less  productive 
ability.  Yet  this  is  not  always  so.  In  occupations 
requiring  neatness,  accuracy,  and  skill  they  are 


WIFE  xiii 

often  superior.  Nor  are  they  transients  because 
men  brutally  drive  them  forth.  Men  have  seldom 
or  never  forced  women  to  take  less  pay  for  the  same 
work ;  for,  as  Mr.  Sidney  Webb  has  pointed  out, 
the  entire  history  of  industry  shows  only  a  few 
rare  cases  in  which  men  and  women  have  done 
precisely  similar  work  in  the  same  place  and  at 
the  same  epoch.  Where  the  sexes  clash,  women 
drive  out  men.  Men  simply  cannot  stand  the  com 
petition. 

For  in  some  respects  men  are  feeble  to  a  point 
which  it  is  not  easy  to  discriminate  from  imbe 
cility.  Hard  as  it  is  in  the  struggle  of  life  for  any 
one  to  take  care  of  himself,  they  are  always  casting 
about  for  the  privilege  (as  it  seems  to  them)  of  pay 
ing  the  bills  of  some  one  else  —  curiously  enough, 
almost  always  a  woman.  And  before  a  poor  devil 
has  become  well  inured  to  his  new  responsibility, 
he  rubs  his  eyes  to  find  that  there  are  other  mouths 
to  feed,  other  backs  to  clothe.  Yet  this  extraordi 
nary  dupe  goes  ahead  and  does  it,  uncomplaining. 
More  than  that !  life  is  not  worth  living  to  him  un 
less  he  can  afford  to  act  in  this  manner.  Women, 
with  their  superior  intelligence,  are  quite  satisfied 
to  work  only  for  themselves.  They  have,  in  fact, 


xiv  WIFE 

an  extraordinary  capacity  for  making  others  work 
for  them.  Under  a  competitive  system,  however, 
this  enlightened  policy  has  one  drawback.  Such 
is  the  insanity  of  men,  that  to  take  care  of  others 
they  will  work  harder  and  better  than  women  will 
work  for  themselves.  And  that  is  the  great  reason 
—  perhaps  the  only  reason  —  why  women  are  paid 
less  than  men.  Their  own  dispositions  limit  them 
to  kinds  of  work  that  are  worth  less.  In  the  indus 
trial  duel  of  the  sexes  they  have  mastered  many 
fields  —  but  each  field  shrinks  as  they  master  it. 

It  is  not  this,  however,  which  makes  women 
transients  in  wage-earning.  A  prominent  merchant 
once  put  the  case  very  tersely.  He  had  long  em 
ployed  women  as  responsible  stenographers  and 
secretaries,  but  had  lately  begun  filling  their  places 
with  men,  though  at  greatly  increased  salaries. 
One  reason  for  doing  so,  he  said,  was  that  women 
are  less  stable  physically,  and  that  when  their  dis 
ability  occurs  in  a  crisis  of  rush  work  the  result  is 
disastrous — as  disastrous  to  the  welfare  of  the 
woman  as  to  that  of  the  business.  His  second  rea 
son  was  perhaps  more  momentous.  He  had  found, 
he  said,  that  he  could  not  count  on  women  perma 
nently.  To  train  them  up  to  a  responsible  post 


WIFE  xv 

required  several  years;  and  it  usually  happened 
that,  as  soon  as  they  had  mastered  it,  they  fell  ill 
or  retired  to  private  life. 

Thus  in  business  as  elsewhere  women  have 
failed  to  make  good  the  claim  of  equality.  They 
backslide  in  one  of  three  ways  —  premature  death, 
somewhat  belated  marriage,  or  the  eternal  streets. 
The  difference  of  sex  asserts  itself  and  upsets  the 
advanced,  the  enlightened  order. 

Even  in  the  matter  of  actual  numbers  we  have 
perhaps  exaggerated  the  importance  of  women 
in  industry.  It  is  highly  probable  that  in  the 
economic  life  of  the  world  as  a  whole  they  are 
a  less  important  factor  than  in  any  preceding 
age.  I  am  aware  that  to  the  feminist  mind  this 
will  seem  a  false  statement,  or  at  best  an  untena 
ble  paradox ;  but  let  us  look  at  the  recognized 
facts.1 

It  was  the  invention  of  machinery  that  brought 
women  into  the  ranks  of  wage-earners.  In  the 
preceding  age,  and  for  thousands  of  years  before 
it,  back  to  the  beginnings  of  civilization,  most 

1  The  following  paragraph  was  written  before  the  publication 
of  Dr.  Edith  Abbott's  Women  in  Industry,  which,  however, 
substantiates  every  statement  in  it. 


xvi  WIFE 

industries  were  household  industries  —  they  were, 
in  fact,  the  invention  of  the  aboriginal  mistress  of 
the  household.  Women  baked  and  brewed,  spun, 
wove,  sewed,  and  mended  ;  they  brought  up  large 
families  with  their  own  hands,  formed  the  man 
ners  of  their  children,  and  informed  their  minds. 
Machinery  —  the  factory  and  the  railway  — 
changed  all  this.  By  cheapening  commodities,  it 
put  an  end  forever  to  almost  all  of  the  household 
industries.  At  the  same  time  it  created  the  female 
wage-earner.  Thrown  out  of  work  at  home,  ren 
dered  idle  and  no  longer  self-supporting,  women 
of  necessity  flocked  to  the  shop  and  the  fac 
tory.  But  as  machinery  cheapened  commodities  it 
lessened  the  labor,  and  the  number  of  laborers, 
necessary  to  their  production.  And  even  of  this 
labor  much  is  performed  by  men.  Thus,  speaking 
roughly,  in  proportion  as  the  number  of  women 
wage-earners  has  increased,  the  importance  of 
women  in  the  sum  total  of  human  industry  has 
diminished. 

I  have  no  wish  to  minimize  the  wrongs  of  the 
working-woman.  As  individuals  they  are  still  sub 
ject  to  much  injustice.  What  is  more,  as  potential 
mothers  of  a  new  generation  the  prevailing  system 


WIFE  xvii 

often  treats  them  brutally,  suicidally.  And  I  do 
not,  I  think,  undervalue  the  recent  womanly  ad 
vance  in  any  respect.  The  athletic  woman  and  the 
woman  who  concerns  herself  with  public  affairs, 
either  as  a  reader  of  magazines  or  as  an  actual 
worker,  is  a  clear  improvement  upon  the  woman 
of  old  whose  activity  and  intelligence  were  limited 
to  the  household.  Yet  I  think  it  fairly  demon 
strable  that  we  have  all  been  inclined  to  miscon 
ceive  the  present  woman-problem.  The  one  great 
disease  of  modern  life  is  not  the  woman  in  indus 
try  ;  it  is  the  idle  woman. 

Until  the  present  era,  only  the  aristocratic  few 
stood  outside  the  workaday  world.  To-day, 
throughout  what  is  sometimes  called  the  middle 
classes,  women  have  no  real  work.  Their  meals 
are  cooked  for  them,  their  clothing  made  for  them. 
In  cases  of  sickness  they  employ  a  trained  nurse. 
Often  they  have  tutors  and  governesses  for  their 
children,  and  afterward  they  send  their  boys  and 
girls  away  from  home  to  school.  What  has  hap 
pened  is  what  always  happens  when  any  human 
being  or  any  class  loses  touch  with  the  vital  affairs 
of  life :  superficially  more  vivacious,  more  charm 
ing,  more  varied  than  ever  before,  our  women 


xviii  WIFE 

have  become,  in  all  the  essentials  of  character, 
futile,  shallow,  and  vain. 

It  is,  to  be  sure,  only  industrially  —  as  produc 
tive  units  —  that  modern  women  are  idle.  If  the 
mere  doing  of  things  is  labor,  heaven  knows  they 
have  work  enough !  As  if  aware  of  the  unnatural 
emptiness  of  their  lives,  they  are  casting  about  for 
something  to  occupy  them  in  a  thousand  direc 
tions. 

For  some  subtle  reason  that  something,  as  a 
rule,  has  hitherto  belonged  only  to  men.  Is  it  pos 
sible  that  the  paragon  of  the  nations  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  respects  nothing  so  much  as  her  humble 
consort  ?  Certainly  we  have  received  the  flattery  of 
imitation.  There  have  been  women  lawyers,  doc 
tors,  and  priests ;  women  painters  and  sculptors. 
Mentally  these  women  have  no  doubt  been  the 
equals  of  men  —  at  least,  as  Professor  Angell  has 
shown,  they  respond  as  favorably  to  the  laboratory 
tests  of  physiological  psychology.  Yet  after  a  gen 
eration  of  eager  striving,  the  only  field  in  which 
women  have  really  shone  is  the  field  in  which  they 
have  always  shone,  because  it  gives  scope  to  the 
emotional  and  social  qualities  of  their  sex — the 
novel  of  manners. 


WIFE  xix 

The  failure  cannot  be  laid  to  mere  male  preju 
dice.  Women  themselves  do  not  employ  women 
lawyers  and  doctors.  And  though  women  are  the 
chief  patrons  of  the  arts,  they  do  not  differ  from 
men  in  their  judgments  as  to  their  sisters  who  are 
artists. 

The  idea  still  persists,  however,  and  is  appar 
ently  gaining  ground,  that  the  sexes  are,  or  should 
be,  alike  in  activity  and  function.  An  orator  ad 
dressing  a  Chicago  woman's  club  lately  proposed 
that,  as  we  have  mothers'  clubs  and  mothers'  mag 
azines,  we  should  have  also  fathers'  clubs  and 
fathers'  magazines.  The  idea  commends  itself  to 
the  meanest  intelligence.  Sauce  for  the  goose  is 
also  sauce  for  the  gander. 

An  idea  which  is  essentially  the  same  has  com 
mended  itself  to  intelligences  which  are  far  from 
mean.  Whatever  is  goose-like  in  the  feminine 
mind  —  or  shall  we  say  gallinaceous? — is  ex 
plained  by  an  appeal  to  history  as  resulting  from 
the  brutal  suppression  which,  it  is  alleged,  women 
have  always  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  mus- 
cularly  superior  sex.  Thus  it  will  take  time  for 
woman  to  recover  her  pristine  equality.  One  of 
the  cleverest  of  the  advancing  women  has  written 


xx  WIFE 

a  poem  to  point  the  way  back  to  nature.  It  begins 

thus:  — 

The  female  fox  she  is  a  fox, 
The  female  horse  a  horse. 

The  rest  of  the  poem  escapes  my  memory ;  but 
the  sense  is  that  the  female  fox  is  as  crafty  as  Rey 
nard,  the  female  horse  even  swifter  than  Bucepha 
lus.  Maud  S.  and  Nancy  Hanks  are  the  heroines 
this  poet  sings.  And  woman,  when  she  comes  into 
her  own,  will  be  a  superior  female  man. 

Such  reasoning,  to  say  the  least,  is  not  univer 
sally  true  to  human  experience.  Hercules  had  his 
Omphale,  Samson  his  Delilah ;  and  the  merely 
industrial  male,  as  we  have  seen,  has  not  greatly 
profited  by  their  example.  If  man  has  crushed 
woman  down,  which  I  am  far  from  admitting,  it  is 
manifest  that  he  has  also  idealized  her,  exalted 
her.  Through  the  darkest  of  dark  ages  the  one 
shrine  of  human  adoration  held  a  woman.  Our 
poet's  reasoning  in  fact  is  only  speciously  scientific. 
It  leaves  quite  out  of  account  the  one  science  in 
which  all  questions  of  sex  have  their  origin  — 
biology. 

And  here  we  shall  have  to  plod  in  the  lowly 
path  of  platitude.  Sex  is  an  evolution.  In  the  earli- 


WIFE  xxi 

est  forms  of  life  it  did  not  exist ;  and  as  life  has 
ascended,  the  difference  between  the  sexes  has 
become  more  and  more  pronounced.  Now  a  chief 
means  in  the  ascent  of  life  everywhere  is  special 
ization.  The  functions  of  the  primitive  medicine 
man  are  to-day  divided  between  the  priest  and 
the  doctor,  each  of  whom  further  specializes  as 
preacher  or  social  worker,  as  physician  or  surgeon, 
as  oculist,  aurist,  dentist.  The  patriarchal  house 
hold  has  expanded  by  specialization  into  our  in 
comparably  complex  social  and  economic  order. 
In  biology  the  process  has  been  the  same.  All  the 
complex  organs  of  the  human  anatomy  developed 
by  specialization  from  a  single  cell.  In  a  precisely 
similar  manner  sex  also  is  a  specialization.  In  the 
unstable  life  of  the  lower  animals,  exposed  on  all 
sides  to  danger  of  annihilation,  the  female  has  to 
be  as  cunning  and  as  swift  as  the  male,  who  is 
quite  powerless  to  protect  her  or  her  young.  But 
in  human  society  the  male  has  achieved  the  func 
tion  of  providing  and  protecting,  while  the  female 
has  achieved  a  specialized  capacity  for  mother 
hood  which,  at  its  best,  is  unapproached  in  all 
animate  life.  Sex  equality  is  unknown  to  nature :  it 
is  against  nature.  Messrs.  Geddes  and  Thompson, 


xxii  WIFE 

in  their  work  on  the  Evolution  of  Sex,  remark  in 
an  impatient  footnote  that  what  was  foreordained 
among  the  protozoans  cannot  be  changed  by  act 
of  Parliament. 

I  once  had  the  honor  of  repeating  this  sentence 
to  a  distinguished  English  woman  disseminating 
new  thoughts  among  us.  The  idea  that  women 
should  be  like  men,  she  retorted,  was  quite  out  of 
date.  She  and  her  militant  allies  would  never  think 
of  wearing  pot  hats,  choker  collars,  and  trousers ! 
"  When  I  was  put  in  jail,"  she  concluded,  "  I 
wore  a  crepe  de  chine  frock  of  the  latest  mode, 
and"  —  with  a  gesture  about  her  head  which  the 
limited  masculine  intelligence  could  never  trans 
late  —  "  a  hat  that  went  so,  and  so."  And  thus  was 
the  doctrine  of  feminine  equality  reconciled  with 
biology. 

The  ideas  of  the  modern  woman,  like  her  activi 
ties,  result  not  so  much  from  an  advance  in  thought 
as  from  a  change  in  industrial  conditions.  Hav 
ing  little  or  no  functional  part  in  the  world  as  it  is 
now  constituted,  she  has,  obeying  a  very  human 
instinct,  produced  from  her  inner  consciousness 
a  new  order  which  is  to  give  her  a  place  of  recog 
nized  importance.  But  even  as  this  new  order  flies 


WIFE  xxiii 

in  the  face  of  evolution,  it  is  at  war  with  her  deepest 
and  most  permanent  impulses. 

Never  before,  I  submit,  has  there  been  a  more 
interesting  subject  for  dramatic  representation. 
And  it  has  quite  eluded  the  dramatist.  In  the  light 
of  it  the  women  of  Ibsen  seem  already  to  belong 
to  a  past  generation. 

The  ideals  against  which  they  revolted  were 
essentially  those  of  the  era  of  household  indus 
tries  ;  for,  as  so  often  happens,  they  had  long  sur 
vived  the  conditions  that  gave  rise  to  them.  In  the 
old  age,  "  woman's  work  was  never  done,"  and  the 
place  for  her  body  and  her  mind  was  not  unnatu 
rally  held  to  be  the  place  where  her  work  was.  To 
attempt  an  individual  life  outside  the  home  was, 
and  not  without  reason,  held  to  be  unjustifiable  — 
" unwomanly"  if  not  positively  immoral.  When 
women  married  they  had  a  home  and  children  of 
their  own  ;  if  they  did  not  marry,  they  became  lit 
erally  "spinsters"  in  the  industrial  households  of 
others.  But  as  soon  as  the  home  ceased  to  afford 
wives  or  spinsters  their  normal  activities  and  im 
portance,  it  became  a  doll's  house :  to  limit  their 
lives  to  its  four  walls  was  the  height  of  tyranny. 
The  situation  was  of  a  kind  to  appeal  strongly  to 


xxiv  WIFE 

Ibsen;  and  so  we  have  Nora  and  the  revolted 
woman  in  general. 

I  do  not  mean  that  Ibsen  had  thought  out  the 
situation  in  the  terms  of  economic  history,  or  of 
biology ;  indeed,  we  know  that  he  had  not  done 
so.  He  had  the  keenest  of  eyes  for  character  in 
dramatic  situations ;  but  his  thought  was  limited 
to  the  terms  of  the  drama  of  the  individual.  His 
mind  worked  not  by  causation,  analysis,  construc 
tion,  but  by  broad  comparisons  and  contrasts.  In 
"  An  Enemy  of  the  People  "  he  portrayed  the  ideal 
of  manly  heroism  ;  and  then  in  "  The  Wild  Duck  " 
he  gave  us  its  travesty.  When  he  had  given  us 
Nora,  who  abandoned  home,  husband,  and  children 
in  the  heroic  will  to  realize  her  true  womanhood, 
he  felt  that  not  all  womanly  revolt  is  justifiable ; 
and  in  this  new  mood  he  gave  us  Hedda  Gabler, 
whose  feminine  ambitions  turned  everything  they 
touched  to  the  sordid  and  the  mean.  But  whether 
positive  or  negative,  Ibsen's  characters  are  unre 
lated  to  the  social  order.  Nora's  children  bound  her 
as  little  to  her  home  or  to  the  destiny  of  the  race  as 
Hedda's  unborn  child. 

Ibsen  had,  in  short,  no  mind  for  abstract  ideas 
or  for  systems.  He  had  no  interest  in  "  philosophy 


WIFE  xxv 

as  such"  ;  and  he  expressed  his  contempt  for  eco 
nomic  thought  with  characteristic  brusqueness. 
He  remarked  that  he  was  quite  able  to  believe 
John  Stuart  Mill  when  he  said  that  he  "  got  all  his 
ideas  from  his  wife."  The  vast  new  revelations  of 
biology  had  no  deep  meaning  for  him ;  and  in  the 
progress  of  human  history  —  so  sure  and  majestic, 
if  often  slow  and  halting  —  he  saw  only  "a  gigan 
tic  shipwreck,"  with  not  enough  lumber  left  from 
it  all  to  make  a  state  worth  living  in.  "  The  State 
crushes  Individuality,"  he  cried  ;  "  away  with  the 
State!" 

It  is  not  strange  that  he  failed  to  enlighten  us 
as  to  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  revolted  woman,  of 
her  coming  relationship  to  social  and  economic 
development.  But  since  he  failed  to  do  so,  his 
Nora  already  "dates"  ;  she  is  as  clearly  mid- Vic 
torian  as  black  walnut  and  haircloth. 

To-day  the  world  is  full  of  outmoded  Noras, 
still  seeking,  absurdly,  heroically,  pathetically,  the 
"  miracle  "  which  shall  restore  them  to  their  birth 
right  of  an  economic  status  and  a  vital  function. 
And  Hedda  Gablers  are  not  unknown.  The  great, 
the  insistent  question  of  the  time  is  what  on  earth 
to  do  with  such  women.  When  the  world  is  ridden 


xxvi  WIFE 

by  a  dead  ideal  it  needs  heroic  individuals  to  set 
it  free ;  but  such  freedom  is  sheer  anarchy  unless 
it  leads  to  a  new  ideal  —  an  ideal  which  coordi 
nates  the  welfare  of  the  individual  with  the  welfare 
of  the  community  as  an  organized  whole.  As  the 
work  of  Ibsen's  generation  was  dark  and  destruc 
tive,  ours  is  — pace  my  play-broker  —  constructive. 
Along  certain  lines  the  way  is  clear  enough,  and 
is  already  well-trodden.  Social  life,  which  now 
spreads  far  out  beyond  the  portals  of  the  home,  is 
very  generally,  though  perhaps  not  very  rapidly, 
advancing  in  refinement  and  intelligence.  The 
popular  arts  are,  as  my  play-broker  so  clearly  re 
cognizes,  still  largely  dominated  by  the  ancient 
feminine  vanity  and  sentimentality  ;  yet  personally 
I  feel  optimistic  —  as  well  as  constructive.  If  ever 
I  should  be  moved  to  portray  women  with  the 
pen  of  satire,  I  should  do  so,  in  the  firm  belief  that 
they  have  achieved  a  sense  of  humor  and  a  de 
tached  intelligence.  The  gallinaceous  club  woman 
is  obsolescent  and  may  some  day  be  extinct,  like 
the  dodo.  In  well-managed  clubs  and  civic  organ 
izations  women  are  exerting  a  very  powerful  influ 
ence  on  the  social  order.  All  this  work  is  produc 
tive,  though  remotely  and  indirectly  so. 


WIFE  xxvii 

In  one  field  the  labor  of  women  is  immediately 
and  directly  productive.  It  is  a  field  in  which  they 
are  forever  the  only  laborers ;  and  it  is  the  most 
vital,  most  significant  field  of  all.  Here,  alas !  it 
can  hardly  be  said  that  they  are  advancing.  "  There 
is  no  wealth  but  life,"  wrote  Ruskin;  and  the  doc 
trine,  neglected  in  his  own  time,  has  lately  been 
taken  as  entitling  him  to  rank  as  the  founder  of 
the  only  real  and  vital  economics.  "A  nation," 
says  Tille,  "  is  composed  not  of  property  or  of 
provinces,  but  of  men."  "  The  culture  of  the  racial 
life,"  says  Saleeby,  "  is  the  vital  industry  of  any 
people  "  ;  and  he  advocates  it  as  the  basis  of  the 
patriotism  of  the  future,  whether  socialistic  or  in 
dividualistic,  peaceful  or  imperial. 

How  women  are  performing  this,  their  exclu 
sive  industrial  function,  is  well  known.  In  France 
population  as  a  whole  is  declining  in  numbers ;  in 
England,  America,  and  Germany  the  rate  of  ad 
vance  is  becoming  rapidly  less.  Among  the  well 
born  and  well-bred  everywhere  —  the  aristocracy 
of  biology  —  it  is  stationary  or  actually  receding. 
Cut  off  by  the  industrial  revolution  from  one  form 
of  their  ancient  productivity,  women  are  cutting 
themselves  off  from  the  other  in  obedience  to  their 


xxviii  WIFE 

own  idle  selfishness,  or  at  best  their  ignorant  and 
false  ideals. 

The  theory  upon  which  all  these  ideals  ulti 
mately  rest  is  that  sex  is  "an  accident,"  and  as 
such  a  let  and  hindrance  to  the  life  of  the  individual. 
Down  with  all  the  old  ideals  of  motherhood !  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw,  in  whom  the  vital  if  incomplete 
thought  of  Ibsen  has  fallen  into  a  late  Victorian 
decadence,  and  so  itself  already  "  dates,"  blandly 
proposes  that  children  shall  be  rapt  from  their 
mothers  and  fathers  at  birth  and  turned  over  to  the 
incubator  of  a  socialistic  state.  "  What  we  need  is 
freedom  for  people  who  have  never  seen  each  other 
before,  and  never  intend  to  see  one  another  again, 
to  produce  children  under  certain  definite  public 
conditions  without  loss  of  honor."  The  fatherland 
is  to  become  also  the  motherland  —  or  rather  an 
asexual  institution  which  shall  perform  the  dual 
function. 

Of  all  the  functions  which  the  state  performs 
badly,  it  would  perform  the  function  of  motherhood 
worst.  But  the  appalling  feature  of  this  remark 
able  statement  is  its  ignorance  of  biology.  If  sex  is 
an  accident,  so  is  evolution.  Sex  is  the  one  great 
instrument  of  the  increasing  purpose  of  the  ages. 


WIFE  xxix 

Talk  of  comradeship  and  equality,  with  the  logical 
corollary  of  race  culture  by  public  creche,  is  mere 
cackle  —  though  to  say  so  is  to  wrong  the  esti 
mable  gallinacean,  who  is  by  no  means  respon 
sible  for  the  introduction  into  the  barnyard  of  state 
socialism  in  the  form  of  an  incubator. 

Abhorrent  as  the  idea  may  be  to  the  Ibsen  girl 
—  whether  mid- Victorian  or  late-Victorian,  whether 
clothed  in  black  crlpe  de  chine  or  in  a  red  beard 
and  trousers  —  the  one  sure  salvation  for  the  hectic 
and  futile  modern  woman  is  a  heightened  sexual 
life,  both  in  the  bearing  and  the  rearing  of  children. 
The  normal  energies  of  men  are  creative  ;  but  what 
they  create  is  dead  —  constitutions,  institutions, 
works  of  invention  and  of  art.  The  normal  energies 
of  women  are  procreative ;  and  what  they  pro 
create  is  alive  — the  men  and  women  of  the  future, 
who  shall  give  vigor  and  effect  to  constitutions  and 
institutions,  who  shall  transmute  invention  and  art 
into  terms  of  vital  reality.  The  one  great  thing  to 
be  desired  for  the  modern  woman,  as  regards  her 
individual  character,  is  essential  womanhood.  The 
woman  of  the  future  will  glory  in  her  different 
nature;  and  when  she  does  so,  men  will  at  once 
fear  her  and  adore  her. 


xxx  WIFE 

To-day  we  recruit  the  future  mainly  from  the 
lower  ranges  of  our  life  —  the  ill-begotten,  uned 
ucated,  ill-bred  children  of  diseased  or  embruted 
parents.  The  horse-racer  and  the  stock-farmer 
know  better.  Not  so  the  potential  mother  of  the 
human  thoroughbred.  It  is  better,  she  says,  to  give 
one  child  all  possible  advantages  than  to  scant  the 
nurture  and  education  of  many.  This  is  certainly 
better  for  the  parents,  if  what  they  care  for  is  per 
sonal  ease  and  social  distinction.  But  the  case  is 
far  different  if  what  they  care  for  is  the  future  of  the 
race  and  of  mankind. 

To  get  the  one  plant  necessary  to  improve  a 
stock,  Luther  Burbank  raises  seedlings  by  hun 
dreds  of  thousands.  It  is  not  soil  or  culture  that 
produces  the  all-precious  individual,  but  some  un 
fathomable  influence  which  can  be  developed  only 
by  working  blindly  in  numbers.  Benjamin  Frank 
lin  was  the  youngest  of  seventeen  children,  no  one 
of  whom,  except  for  him,  would  now  be  remem 
bered.  But  if  he  had  not  been  born,  the  history  of 
our  country  would  have  been  vastly  different  and 
vastly  less  fortunate.  Far  and  wide,  biography  of 
the  brothers  of  men  of  genius  is  a  study  in  esti 
mable  mediocrity. 


WIFE  xxxi 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  the  problem  of  human 
eugenics  is  more  difficult  than  that  of  the  culture 
of  plants  and  animals.  We  cannot  mate  young  folk 
as  we  mate  cattle,  nor  reject  the  unfit  among  chil 
dren  as  among  plants.  And  doubtless  the  ideal 
family  biologically  numbers  far  less  than  seventeen 
—  probably  less  than  seven.  But  within  the  limits 
imposed  by  science  and  by  common  sense  we  have 
choice,  and  the  choice  of  the  future  will  work 
toward  breeding  more  largely  from  the  vital  aris 
tocracy  and  less  largely  from  the  slums. 

It  is  in  the  creation  of  an  ever-advancing  race, 
and  only  in  this  way,  that  women  can  regain  their 
normal  productive  function.  And  the  ground  is 
cleared  for  them  to  do  so.  Thanks  to  the  glorious 
mid-Victorian  revolt,  the  freedom  of  the  world  is 
theirs.  They  are  able  to  earn  their  own  living,  and 
so  to  choose  their  mates  with  far  greater  wisdom 
than  during  the  long  ages  in  which  their  industry 
was  limited  to  and  dominated  by  the  household. 
In  a  word,  they  have  a  wider  field  of  sexual  selec 
tion.  If,  as  sometimes  happens,  they  are  women 
such  as  Weininger  describes,  in  whom  the  male 
character  element  predominates  over  the  female, 
they  are  at  liberty  to  live  out  their  abnormal  lives, 


xxxii  WIFE 

not  as  lilies  that  wither  in  an  idleness  none  too 
sweet,  but  as  the  modern  equivalent  of  spinsters 
—  as  wage-earners,  teachers,  lawyers,  doctors,  and 
priests.  Whether  spinsters  or  matrons,  their  horizon 
includes  a  vastly  enhanced  social  life  —  the  whole 
world  of  art  and  of  science,  and  as  much  of  politi 
cal  activity  as  in  the  long  run  they  prove  able 
to  perform  with  profit.  But  to  the  normal  woman, 
the  aristocrat  of  biology,  this  free  new  life  is  of 
importance  merely  as  it  enlarges  her  nature  and 
so  perfects  her  in  the  function  which  women  alone 
can  perform,  and  which  is  the  greatest  of  all  func 
tions,  as  life  is  greater  than  art,  greater  than  insti 
tutions. 

The  plays  that  follow  deal  with  two  women 
whose  lives  are  swayed  by  the  very  plausible  ideals 
which  have  of  late  been  current  among  us.  They 
are  not,  I  hope,  thesis-plays  —  to  write  which,  I 
take  it,  is  to  be  false  at  once  to  art  and  to  polemics. 
They  merely  represent  character  in  a  significant 
crisis.  And  they  do  this  so  far  as  possible  in  the 
manner  of  the  popular  playwright.  In  themselves 
the  two  heroines  are,  I  feel,  essentially  sweet  and 
normal.  Indeed,  I  should  be  glad  to  think  that  both 
have  essential  dignity,  even  nobility  of  a  sort.  Both 


WIFE  xxxiii 

come  at  last  to  the  realization  of  what  lies  very 
deep  in  every  woman's  heart — the  instinct  of  the 
race  and  of  the  future.  One  is  passive  and  senti 
mental,  and  her  fate  is  tragic.  The  other  is  active, 
and  is  possessed  of  the  kindly  demon  of  humor. 
If  they  help  to  a  sincerer  respect  for  normal 
womanhood,  they  will  not  have  lived  their  little 
mimic  lives  in  vain. 


CONTENTS 

WIFE 

A  Preface v 

HUSBAND 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts .       i 

THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

A  Tragedy  in  One  Act 235 


HUSBAND 
Come&^  in  Chirr  Sets 


IN    MEMORY    OF 

CLARA   BLOODGOOD 

SINCERE    ARTIST   AND   TRUE    FRIEND 


PEOPLE    IN   THE   PLAY 

MRS.  ANTHONY  HERKIMER  WAYNE 

TONY  WAYNE,  her  htisband 

LORD  EDMUND  IFFLEY 

MURIEL  SCHUYLER 

PHILIP  ROBERTS 

REBECCA  LEVINE,  LL.  B. 

SALLY  JONES 

MARY  JONES  (called  MAYSIE) 

MRS.  ARCHER  DENTON 

RANDALL 


ACT   I 

The  Library  of  Wayne  s  House,  near  Madison  Avenue 

ACT   II 

Mrs.  Wayne  s  Drawing-Room.     Next  Day 

ACT    III 

The  Roof  of  an  Apartment  House  in  Madison  Avenue, 
Madison  Square  Tower  in  the  distance.    A  week  later 

NEW  YORK.    THE  PRESENT 


ACT   I 


ACT   I 

SCENE:  —  Wayne's  Library.  Typically  a  mans  room, 
with  wide,  deep,  easy  chairs,  simple,  solid  oak  furni 
ture  generally,  and  dull,  rich  colors.  The  whole  sug 
gests  inexpensive  good  taste  and  long  use,  verging 
upon  shabbiness.  The  books  are  largely  in  legal  calf 
bindings,  and  bear  the  appearance  of  having  been 
much  handled.  There  is  a  telephone  at  the  desk,  down 
right.  Prominent  among  the  pictures  is  an  etching  of 
the  Harvard  Yard.  There  are  several  large  group 
photographs  of  athletic  teams.  Over  the  door  at  the 
right  is  a  wide  band  of  cloth,  red  at  the  ends  and 
black  in  the  central  third,  upon  which  are  the  letters 
in  white,  Anthony  Herkimer  Wayne.  These  are  all 
former  furnishings  of  a  college  room.  There  are  no 
college  pillows  or  colors.  Outside  the  window  is  a 
yellowing  locust  tree,  through  which  are  dimly  seen 
the  backs  of  neighboring  houses,  warm  with  the  light 
of  a  late  Indian  Summer  afternoon.  As  the  scene 
proceeds,  twilight  gathers  and  deepens  into  night. 

DISCOVERED  : — As  the  curtain  rises,  Wayne  is  at  his 
desk,  asleep,  his  head  on  his  wrists,  which  are  crossed 
above  a  mass  of  papers.  His  coat  is  on  the  floor  be 
side  him.  He  is  wearing  a  colored  shirt  and  belt. 


io  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

(Enter  Randall^ 

RANDALL 
The  lady,  sir,  from  the  Legal  Aid  Society. 

WAYNE 

(  Waking  wearily?) 
Who? 

RANDALL 
The  Jewish  lady  from  the  East  Side.  She  insisted  — 

WAYNE 
Show  her  up. 

(Exit  Randall.    Wayne  drowses  again?) 

(After  a  brief  pause,  enter  Miss  Levine.  She  is  of  me 
dium  size,  lithe,  feline.  Her  hair  is  black,  and  her 
cheeks  dark  red  and  amber.  She  carries  a  copy  of 
Town  Topics,  folded.  At  once  aggressive  and  ill  at 
ease  in  her  present  surroundings,  she  has  walked 
ahead  of  the  butler,  and  now,  unaware  of  his  inten 
tion  to  announce  her,  she  closes  the  door,  shutting 
him  out.  Seeing  Wayne  asleep,  she  stands  irresolute  ; 
then  she  crosses  swiftly  and,  picking  tip  his  coat, 
spreads  it  upon  his  shoulders,  and  turns  to  leave?) 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  ii 

WAYNE 
(Waking.) 
I  beg  pardon ! 

(He  rises,  struggling  with  sleep.  The  coat  falls  un 
heeded  to  the  floor.  His  manner  is  modest  and  good- 
humored ;  but  his  presence  is  commanding  and  gives 
the  impression  of  strong  will  and  unswerving  pur 
pose.  He  is  a  man  for  whom  the  surface  values  of 
life  do  not  exist,  but  who  feels  deeply  the  more  vital 
issues.) 

I've  had  no  good  sleep  the  past  week.  Cat-nap 
—  to  clear  my  wits  before  planning  my  speech 
this  evening.  You  forgive  me  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

Your  campaign  would  n't  tire  you  so.  You  've 
been  wearing  yourself  out  at  your  law  practice. 

WAYNE 
Even  a  candidate  has  to  live. 

'  Miss  LEVINE 
Like  Dr.  Johnson,  I  don't  see  the  necessity. 


12  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

WAYNE 
(Boyishly.) 

You  're  always  scolding  me.  It 's  no  fair. 

Miss  LEVINE 
(  With  a  touch  of  coquetry?) 
Always  ? 

WAYNE 

You  scolded  me  into  joining  your  Legal  Aid  So 
ciety — 

Miss  LEVINE 

It 's  the  best  work  of  your  lifetime  —  what  you  've 
done  for  the  law-ridden  poor.  That's  only  one 
scolding. 

WAYNE 
You  scolded  me  into  politics. 

Miss  LEVINE 

Yes.  And  now  I  've  come  to  scold  you  into  victory ! 
Here  you  are,  at  the  head  of  a  popular  movement 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  13 

for  decent  government.  Think  what  it  means ! 
After  years  of  graft  and  waste,  of  all  that 's  worst  in 
our  politics,  you  have  it  in  your  power  — 

WAYNE 

Not  my  power.  The  people  —  if  enough  of  them 
rebel  against  the  machines  .  .  . 

Miss  LEVINE 

That 's  it  —  the  machines !  You  have  no  machine 
—  only  your  own  personality.  You  have  magnet 
ism  —  though  heaven  knows  how,  you  sleepy  boy ! 
A  whirlwind  finish,  and  all  is  ours.  Yet  you  squan 
der  your  strength  in  mere  bread-winning ! 

WAYNE 

(Changing  the  subject ',  with  boyish  guile.) 

How 's  that  book  of  yours  coming  on  —  Socialism 
and  the  Family? 

Miss  LEVINE 

As  I  told  you  the  last  time  you  asked,  it  has  been 
refused  by  all  the  publishers. 


I4  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

WAYNE 

( Sympathetically. ) 
The  devil !  What  excuse  do  they  give  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 
(  With  deep  irony.) 

One  said  socialists  don't  buy  books,  only  talk 
them.  People  who  buy  books  are  respectable,  and 
won't  stand  for  free  love. 

WAYNE 

Isn't  there  something  in  that?  I  've  had  it  on  my 
mind  to  scold  you.  Tell  me  about  your  child,  Miss 
Levine. 

Miss  LEVINE 

You  're  very  clever.  But  you  shan't  sidetrack  me. 
In  your  private  practice,  which  wears  you  out  so, 
you  are  dickering  over  the  marriage  settlement  of 
an  American  heiress. 

WAYNE 
Lord  Iffley  has  his  attorney.  I  'm  acting  for  Mr. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  15 

Schuyler.  It 's  hideous  folly.  But  where  should  we 
lawyers  be  if  it  were  n't  for  fools  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

The  candidate  of  the  people — mixing-  up  in  the 
follies  of  the  aristocracy !  Or  perhaps,  with  those 
colonial  ancestors,  you  really  are  an  aristocrat? 

WAYNE 
(Laughing^ 

Both  Herkimer  and  Mad  Anthony  were  plain  farm 
ers  and  fought  the  British. 

Miss  LEVINE 
Then  your  descent  from  them  is  a  descent ! 

WAYNE 

I  'm  fighting  the  British,  too.  Lord  Iffley  is  ambi 
tious  for  a  public  career.  You  won't  admit  it,  but 
that  takes  money.  His  lawyer  insists  that  Mr. 
Schuyler  shell  out  three  millions. 

Miss  LEVINE 
Yankee  dollars  —  to  make  an  English  career. 


i6  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

WAYNE 

I  'm  putting  a  ramrod  up  the  old  man's  back  —  ad 
vising  him  to  call  off  the  whole,  sordid  affair. 

Miss  LEVINE 

People  don't  know  that ;  you  are  losing  votes  by 
the  thousand. 

WAYNE 

(Suddenly  serious?) 
Who  told  you  so  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

Ah,  now  you  are  interested!  It 's  I  who  tell  you. 
Night  after  night  in  the  cafes,  I  meet  business 
men,  editors  and  district  leaders.  The  East  Side 
is  turning  against  you  ! 

WAYNE 
(With  the  manner  of  the  practical  politician?) 

That 's  bad.  They  are  the  backbone  of  our  cause, 
your  people. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  17 

Miss  LEVINE 

Throw  up  these  private  entanglements  !  Get  down 
to  the  issue,  and  you  are  in  line  to  be  governor, 
even  President ! 

WAYNE 
(Shrugging  his  shoulders?) 

When  you  talk  like  that,  I  believe  in  myself  least. 
And  by  that  time,  if  I  neglect  my  practice,  I  shall 
be  in  the  poorhouse,  with  those  who  depend  on 
me. 

Miss  LEVINE 
(Significantly?) 

Those  who  depend  on  you!  Was  it  your  own 
choice  that  got  you  into  this  marriage  mess?  Was 
it  not  your  wife  —  her  social  ambition,  her  desire 
to  have  a  finger  in  the  pie  of  swelldom  ? 

WAYNE 

(Indulgently,  but  firmly?) 
Miss  Levine ! 


1 8  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

Miss  LEVINE 

I  can't  understand  you  American  men.  When  you 
stood  forth  boldly  as  an  independent,  both  ma 
chines  tried  to  throw  a  laugh  at  you.  In  ten  days 
you  had  thrown  a  fright  into  them.  Both  sneaked 
round  and  tried  to  get  you  on  the  regular  tickets. 

WAYNE 
(Smiling.) 
The  bosses  were  most  ingratiating  —  in  private. 

Miss  LEVINE 

Yet,  having  bossed  the  bosses,  you  are  under  the 
thumb  of  your  wife  ! 

WAYNE 

(  With  mounting  indignation^) 
Even  if  that  were  true,  it  would  n't  concern  us  now. 

Miss  LEVINE 

You  mean  it 's  none  of  my  business !  But  it  is  your 
business. 

(She  takes  the  periodical  from  under  her  arm,  opens  it, 
and  points  to  an  articled) 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  19 

WAYNE 

(Glances  at  the  opening  paragraph.  His  eyebrows  lower, 
and  his  face  expresses  indignation  ;  but  he  commands 
himself,  and,  returning  the  paper,  says  in  a  tone  of 
unconcern?) 

Back-stairs  gossip.  No  one  reads  such  stuff.  I 
never  heard  of  it  till  this  moment. 

Miss  LEVINE 
(Turning  to  the  front  page  and  pointing  to  the  date.) 

The  issue  of  next  Saturday.  To-morrow  every 
paper  on  the  East  Side  will  be  saying  one  thing : 
while  you  are  professing  in  public  to  be  the  can 
didate  of  the  people,  in  private  you  are  a  parasite 
of  swollen  fortunes  —  bartering  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
body  and  soul,  for  an  English  title  ! 

WAYNE 
You  are  frightfully  melodramatic. 

Miss  LEVINE 

I  may  be  melodramatic.  You  will  be  a  joke  —  a 
marriage  broker !  I  can  see  the  headlines  —  Wayne 
as  Shadchen. 


20  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

WAYNE 

(  With  affected  indifference^ 
An  old  and  honorable  profession  —  Shadchen. 


Miss  LEVINE 

Meantime  your  wife  is  carrying  on  an  affair  with 
the  noble  bridegroom. 


WAYNE 
(  With  a  flash  of  anger.) 

Miss  Levine !  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me  to  my 
writing. 

(He  crosses  toward  the  door.) 

Miss  LEVINE 

It 's  not  I  who  say  this.  It 's  all  here. 
(She  points  to  the  conclusion  of  the  articled) 

WAYNE 

(Glancing  at  the  paper.) 
Blackguards ! 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  21 

Miss  LEVINE 

I  have  warned  you.  Unless  you  stamp  out  this 
scandal,  it  will  ruin  our  cause.  Now  you  may  show 
me  the  door. 

WAYNE 
(Regaining  good  nature?) 

I  have  n't  time  to  be  angry  with  my  enemies  — 
certainly  not  with  my  friends. 

(Kindly?) 

Tell  me,  how's  your  book  on  free  love  coming  on? 

Miss  LEVINE 
(  Sardonically?) 

Nothing  has  happened  since  I  told  you,  just  now, 
that  all  the  publishers  have  refused  it. 

(  With  a  touch  of  anger?) 

Why  do  you  pretend  interest  in  me  ? 

WAYNE 

I  am  interested,  Miss  Levine,  really. 
(As  if  correcting  a  false  start?) 
Tell  me  about  your  child. 


22  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

Miss  LEVINE 

That  at  least  is  published.  You  take  the  moral 
attitude ! 

WAYNE 

If  it 's  the  moral  attitude  to  be  deeply  interested. 
Yours  is  the  only  case  I  have  ever  known  of  —  of 
the  new  marriage. 

Miss  LEVINE 
That  man  —  I'm  well  rid  of  him. 

WAYNE 

I  was  thinking  of  your  child.  Has  he  no  need  of 
a  home  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

At  least  I  have  a  child.  Your  American  women, 
correct  and  sexless  .  .  . 

(Enter  Mrs.  Wayne.  She  is  typically  an  American 
girl,  regular  and  distinguished  in  features,  frank 
and  bright  in  manner,  with  a  pronounced  air  of  one 
used  to  having  her  own  way.  Her  dress,  which  is  in 
exquisite  good  taste,  contrasts  strongly  with  Miss 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  23 

Levines  work-a-day  simplicity.  Randall  follows 
with  a  bridge  table  covered  with  cards.  Miss  Levine, 
ill  at  ease,  draws  back  toward  the  wall  near  the 
door.) 

WAYNE 

You  can't  come  in  here. 
(To  Randall.) 
Take  that  thing  away  1 

(Randall  hesitates  as  if  questioning  the  order,  then 
goes  out  with  the  bridge  table.) 

CLORA 

(  Who  has  not  noticed  Miss  Levine.) 
Miss  Schuyler  has  telephoned  she's  coming1. 
Heaven  knows  why  she  should ;  but  in  another 
minute  she  '11  ring.  We  've  only  one  game  more 
—  twelve  and  a  half  cents  a  point!  I'm  winning 
and  can  hardly  stop. 

WAYNE 

Miss  Schuyler  will  sit  by  till  you  've  finished.   I 
have  only  twenty  minutes  to  sketch  my  speech. 


24  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 
But  Lord  Iffley  is  with  us ! 

WAYNE 
(Significantly.) 
Oh! 

CLORA 

If  Miss  Schuyler  found  him  here!  Things  have 
happened  .  .  . 

WAYNE 

(Significantly.) 
They  have. 

Miss  LEVINE 
( Coming  forward. ) 

Good  day,  Mr.  Wayne.  Good  luck  to  your  speech. 
(Incisively.} 
And  to  your  career  as  boss  of  the  bosses. 

(Mrs.  Wayne  greets  her  pleasantly,  but  she  bows  dis 
tantly  and  goes  out,  conducted  by  Randall.) 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  25 

CLORA 
(Firmly.) 

There  's  not  another  room  in  the  house.    It 's  only 
Alice  Denton  and  Philip. 

WAYNE 

You  have  Philip  to  meet  Lord  Iffley  ?  You  know 
Philip  has  always  cared  for  Miss  Schuyler. 

CLORA 

Philip  just  happened.    He 's  a  good  sportsman  and 
sat  in  to  make  a  game. 

(Laying  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  her  cheek 
against  his,  yet  still  firmly.} 

Put  on  your  coat,  Tony. 

WAYNE 
(Decisively.} 

No !  I  won't  be  interrupted.    This  time  I  '11  have 
my  own  way. 

CLORA 
But  where  shall  we  go  ? 


26  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

WAYNE 

(In  a  commanding  tone,  though  good-humored.) 
Go  to  the  devil !  Only  shut  that  door. 

CLORA 

The  dinner  table  is  being  set.  The  seamstress  is 
in  our  room.  If  you  will  live  in  a  house  as  big  as 
your  pocket! 

WAYNE 
Shut  that  door  ! 

CLORA 

(Falling  back  before  his  vehemence  toward  the  door.) 
We  won't  disturb  you.  Bridge  is  whist,  you  know. 

WAYNE 
SHUT  THAT  DOOR! 

CLORA 

Hush !  They  are  just  outside  and  have  heard  you  ! 
(The  doorbell  rings.) 
Miss  Schuyler,  already ! 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  27 

WAYNE 
( Good-humored. ) 

Oh,  well. 

(Calling  out.} 

Come  in  everybody ! 

(Enter  Mrs.  Denton  and  Sally ,  and  after  them  Lord 
Iffley  and  Philip  Roberts.  They  have  evidently  been 
waiting  outside  the  door.  The  'men  bring  in  a  ma 
hogany  bridge  table  and  four  gilded  chairs.  The 
party  strikes  a  note  of  luxury  contrasting  strongly 
with  Wayne  s  sober  environment.  Philip  is  in  a 
business  suit.  Iffley  wears  a  handsome  frock  coat 
and  tie.  They  play,  Sally  sitting  out.) 

CLORA 

( With  light  scorn.") 

"  Shut  that  door  ! " 
(Apologetically. ) 

Tony  is  a  bear. 

WAYNE 

Clora  did  n't  drop  to  my  Parisian  accent.  I  said, 
Je  ?adoreyje  f  adore  !     - 

( Writes) 


28  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

V 

CLORA 
(Dealing.) 

Tony,  you  might  put  on  your  coat. 

(  Wayne  does  not  heed  her,  but  lights  a  pipe  and  goes 
on  writing.} 

Tony! 

IFFLEY 
(Intervening.} 

It 's  your  make,  partner. 

CLORA 

I've  been  five  years  training  him,  and  he  isn't 
even  house-broken. 

IFFLEY 
Your  make,  Mrs.  Wayne. 

CLORA 
Tony,  do  put  on  your  coat ! 

WAYNE 

(Swinging  round  on  her} 
I  won't  be  bossed.   When  we  married,  we  agreed 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  29 

that  if  I  gave  you  your  way  in  the  little  differences, 
you  would  give  me  mine  in  the  big  ones. 

(Ironically.} 

We  must  have  been  very  happy.    For  five  years, 
we  've  only  had  little  differences. 

CLORA 
Then  put  it  on,  dear. 

WAYNE 

This  at  last  is  a  big  difference. 
(Puffs  vigorously  and  writes.} 

CLORA 
If  you  don't  respect  me,  you  might  your  guests ! 

WAYNE 
I  tell  you,  I  won't  be  bossed ! 

IFFLEY 
Your  make,  partner. 


30  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

(Reaching  across  the  table,  he  presses  her  hand  to  recall 
her  to  the  game.) 

I  say,  but  what  a  hand ! 

PHILIP 
(Quietly,  but  with  intention.} 

If  you  could  only  play  the  hands  you  hold,  Iffley, 
—  grand  slam  1 

IFFLEY 

(Ignoring  this.) 
It  is  still  your  make,  partner. 

WAYNE 
(Turning  again.) 

For  heaven's  sake,  Clora,  pretend  you  're  dummy 
and  talk ! 

CLORA 

I  don't  know  whether  to  make  it  an  anaemic  heart 
or  a  bold,  bad  no-trump.  Without ! 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  31 

MRS.  DENTON 
I  go  over. 
(They  play.) 

IFFLEY 
(Laying  down  the  dummy.) 

This  is  n't  a  hand — not  even  a  foot :  it 's  a  hoof. 
Ha,  ha !  an  Americanism  for  Yarborough  ! 

(He  takes  Clords  hand  consolingly.) 

PHILIP 

IfBey,  you'd  make  your  fortune  in  a  massadj 
parlor. 

CLORA 

(A  little  shocked  laugh.) 
Philip ! 

(Enter  Randall.) 

RANDALL 
Miss  Schuyler,  in  the  drawing-room,  madam. 


32  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 
I  '11  be  there,  presently. 

(Exit  Randall.} 

SALLY 

(A  pretty,  wholesome  girl  of  nineteen,  with  a  solemn 
sense  of  humor.) 

I  do  miss  Alfonso. 

IFFLEY 
(Joining  her.) 
Alfonso,  Miss  Jones  ? 

SALLY 

My  poor,  dear  husband.  You  have  n't  met  him  ? 
Alas,  neither  have  I. 

CLORA 
Don't  interrupt,  Sally. 

(Tolffley.) 

From  a  child,  instead  of  playing  dolls,  she 's  played 
she  had  a  husband.  Everything  I  do  to  Tony  she 
pretends  to  do  it  to  Alfonso. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  33 

IFFLEY 
By  Jove ! 

(Looks  at  Sally  with  frank  admiration.} 
Lucky  Alfonso ! 

SALLY 

Do  you  think  so?  He  used  to  mind  it  dreadfully, 
poor,  dear  angel-face.  He  could  n't  believe  how 
needful  it  was  to  keep  him  in  his  place.  Blessed 
baby-lamb. 

(She  goes  to  Wayne  and  passes  her  hand  across  his 
shoulders.} 

WAYNE 

(Reaching  out  and  patting  her  arm.} 
Love  to  Alfonso. 

(Sally  turns  on  the  electric  light  and  draws  down  the 
shades,  then  takes  up  a  book  and  sits  reading} 

(  The  telephone  rings.  Wayne  speaks  low  but  distinctly. 
His  back  is  to  the  bridge  party,  which  is  intent  on  its 
game} 

WAYNE 

Yes,  I  've  seen  it. 


34  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

(Listens.} 

I  know.  They  're  calling  me  Wayne  the  Shadchen. 
(Listens} 

I  can't  throw  up  the  case.  And  if  I  did,  they  'd  all 

say  I  was  knuckling  under  to  the  pee-pul.  And 

I  should  be!    They'd  have  me  tied  to  the  third 

rail.  I'm  in  for  it,  and  I've  got  to  see  it  through. 

(Listens} 

Yes,  he  's  here — but  what  of\\.t 

(Listens} 

See   here !  If   I   were   a  machine  candidate,  you 
might  talk  to  me  like  that.  But  you  fellows  are  no 
machine !  Not  even  a  monkey  wrench  ! 
(Listens} 

You  know  why  I  took  that  case,  and  what  I  'm  try 
ing  to  do.  Tell  the  reporters  that. 

(Listens} 

If  the  truth  is  too  thin,  then  say  nothing.  Yes,  I  am 
a  candidate  of  the  people.  But  I  'm  no  damn  dema 
gogue  !  If  you  must  talk  — to-night  after  the  meet 
ing.  That  '11  do  for  you  now.  Tell  your  troubles 
to  Central !  I  've  got  enough  of  my  own. 
(Hangs  up  the  receiver  with  a  snap} 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  35 

CLORA 
Tony.  Will  you  put  on  your  coat ! 

WAYNE 

I  tell  you  no.   Do  you  want  to  boss  me  in  every 
little  act ! 
(He  goes  on  writing^ 

CLORA 

(In  sudden  exasperation?) 
Husband  ! 

MRS.  DENTON  AND  SALLY 
(Alarmed?) 

Clora ! 

WAYNE 

(Half  rises  and  speaks  in  a  tone  of  exasperated  rage?) 
How  do  you  dare  .  .  .  ! 

CLORA 

(Crosses  to  him  and  speaks  soothingly,  to  avoid  a  scene. 
The  others  are  politely  unconscious?) 

Tony,  dear,  I  only  asked  you  to  look  decent.  Such 


36  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

a  little  thing !  Why  will  you  be  so  selfish  ?  To 
please  you,  I  'd  do  it  a  thousand  times. 

WAYNE 
(  With  an  ironical  glance  at  her  frock.) 

In  the  matter  of  dress,  your  unselfishness  is  monu 
mental.  The  pleasure  is  altogether  mine. 

CLORA 
Then  put  on  your  coat  —  for  me. 

WAYNE 

Oh,  I'm  a  bear ;  but,  if  you  will  come  in  here  .  .  . 
To  please  me,  would  you  give  up  the  least  of 
your  feminine  vices  ?  Would  you  stop  breaking 
in  on  my  work?  Would  you  stop  bossing  and 
jarring  and  nagging?  That  is  the  real  test  be 
tween  us.  Observe :  to  please  you,  I  put  it  on. 

(He  puts  it  on  with  an  air  of  boyish  chagrin?) 

(  With  a  breath  of  relief  Clora  returns  to  the  table.} 

(As  Wayne  sits  down  to  write,  he  religiits  his  pipe  and 
throws  the  match  at  the  waste  basket.  It  falls  on  the 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  37 

floor,  still  lighted.  He  readies  out  his  foot,  grinds  it 
into  the  carpet,  and  goes  on  writing.'] 

CLORA 
(  Who  has  watched  him,  annoyed?) 

How  often  have  I  told  you  not  to  throw  matches  on 
the  floor !  And  that  pipe  !  Pouff  !  It  smells  as  if 
you  smoked  your  old  gum  shoes. 

(On  a  sudden  impulse,  Wayne  gets  iip  without  a  word, 
glares  at  Clora,  takes  off  his  coat,  throws  it  on  the 
floor,  and  then  resumes  his  writing?) 

CLORA 
Husband ! 

(She  plays  a  card  and  then,  more  scornfully?) 
Husband! 

(Surveying  his  negligee  with  concentrated  distaste?) 
HUSBAND ! 

WAYNE 

(An  outburst?) 

I  am  your  husband  —  yes !  Good  God,  when  I 
see  the  women  of  this  land,  I  wonder  what  sin  we  '  ve 
committed  to  deserve  them  ! 


38  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

(Clora  faces  him  as  if  to  answer,  but  controls  herself?) 

IFFLEY 

(To  Wayne,  making  light  of  the  situation,  yet  in  the 
tone  of  approval.} 

That's  the  way  to  treat  'em.    I  'm  hot  myself. 

(Taking  off  his  frock  coat,  he  throws  it  on  a  chair?) 

WAYNE 

(Regaining good  nature?) 
Yes,  do  !   Take  off  your  overcoat. 
(To  Clora?] 
I  haven't  lost  my  temper  —  only  mislaid  it. 

IFFLEY 

(Quite  lightly,  yet  as  one  used  to  the  prerogative  of  the 
man  and  the  nobleman?) 

What  you  need  in  America  is  an  agitation  for  men's 
rights.  Sufferin'-gents,  eh? 

(He  lights  a  cigarette  and  sits  down  smoking?) 

(  Wayne  laughs,  relights  his  pipe,  lays  his  watch  open 
before  him,  and  is  lost  again  in  his  work?) 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  39 

CLORA 

Because  Tony  is  a  bear,  Lord  Iffley,  you  don't 
have  to  be  an  Indian. 

„    IFFLEY 

Is  n't  this  what  you  call  Indian  Summer  ? 
(Softly  to  Clora.) 

The  man  is  due  in  an  hour  to  address  twenty  thou 
sand  people.  You  don't  want  him  to  expose  a 
naked  intellect. 

CLORA 

He  's  worst  when  he  speaks  his  full  mind.  Then 
there 's  danger  of  Anthony  Comstock. 

WAYNE 
(Leaps  to  his  feet.) 

Will  you  stop  whispering !  I  tell  you  I  must  have 
one  place  where  I  can  work.  Either  you  leave  this 
room  or  I  do. 

CLORA 
(Alarmed.) 

Yes,  do  go  somewhere  else. 


40  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

(  Wayne,  gathering  up  his  papers,  strides  to  the  door,  still 
smoking  his  pipe '.) 

CLORA 
Where  are  you  going ! 

WAYNE 
To  the  drawing-room. 

CLORA 
Miss  Schuyler  is  there ! 

WAYNE 

It 's  too  late  to  go  to  the  club.  I  can't  sit  out  on  the 
curbstone. 

(Exit.) 

CLORA   • 

(Running  to  the  door.) 
Tony !  Take  your  coat ! 

WAYNE 

(His  voice  receding  in  the  hall.) 
Coat  be  damned  ! 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  41 

(Sally,  with  an  annoyed  look,  puts  her  nose  in  her  book.) 

CLORA 

Coatless  in  the  drawing-room  with  Miss  Schuyler! 
And  that  pipe  !  I  never  saw  Tony  so  pig-headed. 

(She  resumes  her  seat  and,  with  an  effort  of  self-con 
trol,  plays  her  last  card.) 

Little  slam  on  us,  partner  —  doubled. 

IFFLEY 
(Casting  up  the  score) 

Why  make  it  without  —  on  three  knaves  and  a 
guarded  nine  spot  ?  Roberts  and  Mrs.  Denton  — 
even,  by  Jove,  on  the  four  rubbers.  Mrs.  Wayne  — 
that  bold,  bad  make  of  yours  has  reduced  your 
winnings  to  forty-eight  dollars. 

(He  puts  on  his  coat  and  looks  in  his  pocket-book) 
I  have  n't  that  much  on  me ! 
( With  Clora  he  stands  apart  from  the  bridge  table.) 
I  shall  meet  you  at  dinner  —  the  Slades  ? 

CLORA 
I  regretted.  Sally  and  I  dine  at  home. 


42  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

IFFLEY 

Then  I'll  be  back  here  in  a  jiffy.  Au  revoir. 
(Fervently.} 

You  wonderful  creature ! 
( To  the  others} 
Good-night.    Good-night ! 
(Exit.) 

SALLY 

(Throwing  down  her  book} 
I'm  off  to  dress  for  dinner. 

CLORA 
You  're  dining  out  ?   I  shall  be  alone,  then. 

SALLY 

Oh,  I  am  sorry  !  The  Blagdens  asked  me  to  fill 
in. 

(Exit} 

(A  brief  silence} 

PHILIP 
If  Muriel  has  come  to  ask  your  advice  —  she  thinks 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  43 

a  whole  lot  of  you,  Clora !  —  remember,  she  has  no 
one  else  to  help  her.  She  's  always  been  led  by  her 
mother. 

(On  a  sudden  thought?) 

It  is  n't  for  myself  I  'm  speaking.  She  never  cared 
for  me  —  never  will  care  !  Only,  I  know  she  does  n't 
really  care  for —  for  any  one  else.  In  the  end  she 's 
the  sort  of  girl  to  suffer  from  —  that  sort  of  mar 
riage.  If  she  does  talk  it  over  with  you  — 

CLORA 

(  With  genuine  kindness?) 
I  '11  do  the  best  I  can,  Philip. 

PHILIP 

I  'm  sure  you  will.  Good-by. 
(Exit.) 

CLORA 

(Her  whole  manner  changing,  presses  her  temples  with 
her  palms?) 

Quarreling  in  public ! 

(Bitterly?) 

Oh!  Oh! 


44  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

MRS.  DENTON 

It's  Lord  Iffley  —  the  marriage  —  that  has  got  on 
Tony's  nerves.  And,  Clora,  it  was  you  who  made 
him  mix  up  in  it. 

CLORA 

Why  not  ?  He  has  only  to  become  known  to  such 
people  to  form  the  most  valuable  connections  — 
get  the  big,  important  cases ;  rise  to  the  top  of  his 
profession.  While  he  has  fought  to  keep  the  Jews 
from  sweating  each  other,  and  mixed  up  in  hare 
brained  politics,  he  has  kept  us  poor. 

MRS.  DENTON 

Poor  ?  Years  ago  I  wrote  an  article  for  the  Sunday 
papers  arguing  that  young  people  in  New  York 
can't  live  on  less  than  fifteen  thousand  a  year  — 

CLORA 

(Interrupting. ) 
That 's  all  we  have  now. 

MRS.  DENTON 
Yes,  but  then  !  You  and  Tony  were  engaged  on 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  45 

nothing  a  year.  You  called  me  fifteen  kinds  of  a 
liar  —  rubbed  it  in  that  Archie  and  I  were  liv 
ing  on  twenty-five  hundred  ;  that  I  only  wrote  the 
article  to  pay  the  rent.  Clora,  you  've  become  ter 
ribly  high-life ! 

CLORA 

You,  too  !  You  made  Archie  build  your  studio 
house,  on  mortgage,  to  stand  in  with  the  rich  and 
paint  their  portraits. 

MRS.  DENTON 
(  With  a  little  shrug.) 

It  should  have  trebled  his  income.  Only,  along 
came  those  magazine  exposures.  Just  as  we  moved 
in,  all  our  best  citizens  were  muckraked,  and  family 
portraits  went  out  of  fashion. 

CLORA 
(Laughing.) 
Well,  then! 

MRS.  DENTON 
(Ruefully.) 
Archie  still  paints  pot-boilers,  and  I  still  write  soci- 


46  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

ety  gossip.  Were  n't  we  all  happier  —  we  with  our 
chafing-dish  meals,  you  in  that  dingy  old  apart 
ment  where  callers  whistled  up  a  tube  ? 

CLORA 

I  remember  those  days.  Tony  loved  me.  Better,  I 
loved  him! 

MRS.  DENTON 
If  we  could  go  back  to  them ! 

CLORA 
It  was  a  different  world. 

MRS.  DENTON 

A  world  in  which  we  were  all  happy.  If  we  could 
go  back  — ! 

CLORA 

The  question  is,  could  Tony !  That  is  the  tragedy 
of  life.  A  woman  is  always  a  woman  :  a  man,  when 
he  marries,  is  a  husband.  Quarreling  in  public ! 
This  is  the  beginning  of  the  end. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  47 

MRS.  DENTON 

Have  you  thought  of  the  end  —  the  end  of  your 
husband  ?  Miss  Levine,  and  her  oriental  beauty  ? 

CLORA 
(Surprised.) 
Miss  Levine? 

MRS.  DENTON 

From  the  moment  Tony  joined  her  in  the  Legal 
Aid  Society,  she  threw  over  the  father  of  that  child 
of  hers  and  worked  with  Tony,  side  by  side.  While 
you  are  amusing  yourself,  she  holds  the  place  that 
belongs  to  you. 

CLORA 
(Laughing  a  little  harshly.) 

Tony  have  an  affair!  Tony!  All  he  can  do  is  to  sit 
in  a  corner  and  make  a  noise  like  a  husband. 


MRS.  DENTON 

But  if  somebody  sits  beside  him  and  makes  a  noise 
like  a  wife  ? 


48  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 

Not  with  Tony.  If  he  ever  had  a  thought  of  her, 
he  '11  forget  her  as  soon  as  he  is  beaten  and  out  of 
politics. 

MRS.  DENTON 

If  he  is  beaten.  But  he  has  gained  strength  with 
every  speech  he 's  made.  All  over  the  country  the 
people  are  rebelling  against  the  bosses.  Both  regu 
lar  parties  are  terribly  scared  at  your  Tony. 

CLORA 

But  if  he  wins,  he  '11  have  to  give  up  his  profession 
—  just  as  he  is  making  the  most  valuable  associa 
tions.  Can  you  see  us  —  living  on  the  salary  of  an 
honest  politician  ? 

MRS.  DENTON 
Are  you  sure  you  don't  want  Tony  to  be  beaten? 

CLORA 

(Genuinely  offended.) 
Alice!  Alice! 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  49 

MRS.  DENTON 

Then  at  least  you  can  set  him  right  in  this  mar 
riage  muddle. 

CLORA 
I! 

MRS.  DENTON 

I  overheard  Tony  at  the  telephone.  The  nose  for 
news !  His  managers  want  him  to  publish  a  state 
ment. 

CLORA 
Well? 

MRS.  DENTON 

They  say  the  truth  is  too  thin.  But  not  the  whole 
truth  —  as  I  know  it. 

CLORA 
As  you  know  it  ? 

MRS.  DENTON 

You  will  admit,  in  the  matter  of  his  coat  Tony 
acted  the  man  of  the  people. 


50  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 
Quite.  Oh,  quite  !  The  pee-pul ! 

MRS.  DENTON 

He  converted  Lord  Iffley  to  play  bridge  in  his 
shirtsleeves.  At  this  moment  he  is  with  the  most 
famous  heiress  in  the  country  —  coatless  in  the 
drawing-room. 

CLORA 
But  — 

MRS.  DENTON 

The  two  great  news  topics  are  Miss  Schuyler's 
marriage  and  Tony's  campaign.  A  story  that  com 
bines  them,  throws  an  unexpected  light  on  both, 
will  get  a  full  page,  and  no  end  of  comment. 

CLORA 

But  Lord  Iffley — Miss  Schuyler!  They  are  my 
guests. 

MRS.  DENTON 

I  can't  urge  you.  Yet,  if  you  really  want  Tony  to 
win,  a  situation  that  is  compromising  you  all  can 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  51 

be  turned  into  the  strongest  campaign  document. 
Thousands  of  votes  for  Tony  !  Lord  Iffley  is  com 
ing  back  here.  Why  not  ask  him? 

CLORA 

Make  political  capital  out  of  what  passes  beneath 
my  roof  ? 

(Enter  Randall.} 

RANDALL 

Miss  Schuyler  is  dining  out,  madam,  and  can  re 
main  only  a  moment. 

CLORA 
Tell  her  I  '11  be  right  in. 

RANDALL 

Mr.  Wayne,  madam,  is  there.  I  spoke  to  him.  I 
would  n't  advise,  madam  — 

CLORA 

Ask  Miss  Schuyler  in  here. 
(Exit  Randall^ 


52  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

MRS.  DENTON 
You  forgive  me  ? 
(They  kiss.) 

If  Lord  Iffley  agrees,  let  me  know. 
(Exit.) 

(Enter  Miss  Schuyler,  announced  by  Randall.  She  is 
delicately  beautiful  and  aristocratic  ;  at  once  shy  and 
girlishly  frank^ 

CLORA 

Pardon  me  for  keeping  you.  There  has  been  a 
piece  in  the  paper  about  me,  and  friends  came  — - 
to  console  me. 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

I  saw  it.   You  know  I  could  n't  believe  such  things. 

CLORA 
(Impulsively^) 

Bless  you  for  that  — and  for  coming  to  tell  me ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
Yet  —  I've  always  had  a  doubt.  And  to-day 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  53 

CLORA 
To-day  ? 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

My  old  nurse,  Mary  Finnerty,  said  they  were  sell 
ing  me,  my  body  and  my  soul,  to  a  man  of  the 
blackest  character.  I  laughed  —  she's  Irish  and 
hates  the  nobility  ;  but  she  showed  me  the  paper, 
and  painted  such  a  picture!  Of  course  I  don't 
believe  her  — 

CLORA 
Of  course. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
Yet  she  said  —  I  must  know  if  it  is  true ! 

CLORA 

( With  warm  sympathy.) 
Tell  me,  dear. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

—  that  young  noblemen  — and  women  —  live  only 
to  amuse  themselves.  So  many  American  girls 
have  married  abroad  and  —  gone  wrong !  In  New 
York  it  is  coming  to  be  as  bad.  She  said  —  I  can't 


54  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

say  it !  But  for  a  moment,  it  made  me  believe  that 
in  the  end,  if  I  marry  a  man  who  does  n't  love  me, 
I  shall  be  so  too  —  that  everybody  .  .  .  I  don't  be 
lieve  it !  And  yet,  if  Lord  Iffley  —  if  you  —  You 
are  not  angry  with  me  ? 

CLORA 
(  With  young  motherly  tenderness^) 

Dear  child,  no.  When  I  first  saw  the  world  —  what 
is  black  in  it  —  I  suffered,  oh,  I  did  suffer !  —  hor 
ror,  a  feeling  of  degradation.  So  does  every  young 
girl.  And  your  case  is  so  much  harder  !  Even  if  I 
were  all  your  old  nurse  said,  dearest,  I  could  n't  be 
angry,  only  love  you  the  more.  Has  your  mother 
never  talked  to  you  —  ? 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

Never.  She  put  me  off  —  makes  me  feel  that  she 
thinks  as  ill  of  men  as  old  Mary. 

CLORA 

I  '11  tell  you  the  truth.  There  are  many  bad  people, 
men  and  women.  The  luxurious  and  the  fashion 
able  may  be  worse  than  others  —  I  can't  say.  It  is 
true  that  Lord  Iffley  and  I  have  seen  a  good  deal 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  55 

of  each  other.  He  was  among  those  who  came  in 
this  afternoon. 

MlSS  SCHUYLER 

I  heard  his  voice. 

CLORA 

But  that  I  am  what  the  paper,  your  nurse,  said  — 
never,  in  deed  or  in  thought ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
(  Throwing  her  arms  about  Clora.) 

I  knew  it,  I  knew  it !  I  'm  so  glad !  If  you  had 
been  angry  or  hesitated,  even  a  moment  —  what  I 
should  have  suffered ! 

CLORA 

I  know  many  women  in  New  York.  Some  of  them 
are  bad  ;  more  are  weak  or  reckless  ;  but  most  of 
all,  even  those  who  know  the  world  best,  are  inno 
cent  as  you  are. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

(Kissing  her  -with  affectionate,  almost  hysterical  laugh 
ter.) 

I  knew  it,  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it ! 


56  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

(Standing  away  from  Clora.) 
You  don't  mind,  Mrs.  Wayne  ? 

CLORA 
I  love  you  for  it. 

(Taking  her  again  in  her  arms.) 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

May  I  talk  to  you  about  Lord  Iffley  —  about  Ed 
mund? 

CLORA 
Surely  —  if  you  wish. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
You  think  him  charming  ? 

CLORA 

Very  charming  —  very.  He  has  the  Eton  and  the 
Oxford  manner  —  amusing,  winning,  yet  manly  : 
dangerous,  too ;  for  everything  he  has  wanted  he 
has  always  had  it.  He  is  quite  the  nobleman. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

And  if  he  wanted — me?  Would  he  see  so  little 
of  me,  so  much  of  —  of  others  ? 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  57 

CLORA 
You  yourself  can  tell  best. 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

He  said  he  did,  and  he  —  was  so  charming  ! 
(She  turns  away  her  face -.) 

I  know  I  'm  a  little  fool.  But  you  're  the  only  one 
I  can  talk  to  who  knows  him  !  Hew  charming  !  But 
so  he  is  to  everyone.  And  after  he —  spoke  to  me 
—  that  very  day  —  did  you  hear  ?  —  he  drank  too 
much  at  the  club,  and  then  at  a  dance.  If  he  only 
said  what  he  said  —  forced  himself  to  say  it  — 
If  he  loves — some  one  else  —  you  would  tell 
me  ... 

CLORA 

(After  a  brief  'pause '.) 

Is  n't  the  important  question  whether  you  love 
him? 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

But  how  can  I  tell  ?  There  never  has  been  any  one 
else  —  except  Philip,  and  he  's  more  a  brother  .  .  . 


58  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 

If  you  loved  Lord  Iffley,  I  think  you  would  know 
it.  I  am  sure  you  'd  not  come  with  all  this  to  me. 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

I  told  mother  I  did  n't.  She  said,  of  course  not  — 
that  it 's  better  I  should  n't ;  that  the  best,  the  most 
lasting  love  comes  after  marrying  —  the  love  of 
a  husband.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

,         CLORA 
(Exclaiming^) 

A  husband  !  Do  you  know  what  a  husband  is  ?  A 
wild,  dangerous,  glorious  thing  that  has  become 
stupidly  tame.  A  kitten  on  the  hearthrug  is  more 
exciting  —  much  less  a  nuisance !  No,  no.  Better 
once  in  a  lifetime  have  love ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
Then  you  advise  .  .  .  ? 

CLORA 
I  can't  advise  —  for  personal  reasons. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  59 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

But  if  Lord  Iffley  ...  if  Edmund  ...  if  /  ... 

CLORA 
The  reasons  are  connected  with  Tony. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Mr.  Wayne !  All  along  he  has  influenced  father 
against  the  marriage.  Mother  is  furious. 

CLORA 

People  don't  know  that.  It 's  hurting  him  dread 
fully  in  politics.  I  got  him  to  act  for  your  father, 
and  now,  to  be  square,  I  have  to  get  him  out  of 
the  fix.  I  want  you  to  call  off  the  whole  affair  — 
by  Tony's  advice. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
But  if  it  were  n't  for  that  ? 

CLORA 

The  instinct  that  made  you  come  to  me  —  I  think 
it  was  right.  But  remember !  I  have  Tony's  axe 
to  grind. 


60  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

(Impulsively^) 

Even  if  he  is  a  husband,  dearie,  you  do  love  him ! 
I  can't  bear  to  think  — 

CLORA 

( With  sub-acid  amusement?) 
You  saw  him  in  the  drawing-room  —  ? 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Writing  —  his  speech  1  What  was  he  thinking  — 
the  few  words  he  was  jotting  down  —  to-night  in 
Madison  Square,  with  that  great,  deep  voice  of 
his  and  his  splendid  presence,  it  will  rouse  thou 
sands,  tens  of  thousands,  to  cheer  after  cheer ! 

CLORA 

His  voice  —  did  he  speak  to  you  ?  His  presence 
—  you  saw  the  shirtsleeves  ? 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

A  great,  burly,  untidy  boy.  When  the  butler  came 
in,  he  roared  like  a  lion. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  61 

CLORA 
Or  like  a  husband. 

MlSS   SCHUYLER 

A  lion !  I  adore  lions.  Did  you  ever  want  to  have 
as  a  pet  a  huge,  soft  lion  that,  except  for  his  love 
for  you,  would  sink  his  claws  into  you,  take  your 
throat  in  his  white  teeth  —  tear  you  to  pieces  ? 

CLORA 

You  have  thought  that !  Then  it  is  best,  dear  child, 
to  wait  for  the  lion. 

(Enter  Wayne,  looking  at  his  watch.     With  a  hurried, 
absent  nod,  he  crosses  and  picks  up  his  coat.) 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Mr.  Wayne !  Roar  like  a  lion !  Gnash  your  teeth, 

devour  her !  She  adores  it ! 

(She  laughs  and  kisses  Clora,  who  embraces  her) 

You  have  made  me  so  happy ! 

(Exit.) 

WAYNE 
What 's  that  nonsense ! 


62  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

(Passing  Clora  near  the  door.') 

Oh,  don't  sit  up  for  me.  My  managers  are  going 
to  row  me  about  this  mess.  I  shan't  be  back  till 
the  small  hours. 

(He  turns  to  go) 

CLORA 
Tony  .  .  . 

WAYNE 

(Remembering,  he  takes  her  face  between  his  hands 
and  kisses  her  cheek  in  a  perfunctory  way) 

Sleep  well,  dearest. 

CLORA 
Tony! 

WAYNE 
(  Turning.) 

Yes? 

CLORA 

For  the  first  time,  after  five  years,  we  have  quar 
reled  —  in  public !  You  leave  me  without  a  word. 

WAYNE 

(Absently.) 

I  'm  tired,  dear,  and  cross.  I'll  try  to  be  better. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  63 

CLORA 

(Discouraged.} 

You  are  a  husband  ! 

WAYNE 

(Facing  her  earnestly.) 
Are  you  my  wife  ? 

CLORA 

Your  wife!  Your  ideal  of  a  wife  is  a  strenuous, 
high-browed  person.  Men  fall  in  love  with  their 
opposites — then  expect  their  wives  to  be  like  them 
selves,  precisely. 

WAYNE 

Jove,  I  never  thought  of  that. 
(Amused} 
A  wife  like  me — how  I  should  adore  her! 

(Delighted  with  a  new  idea} 

Every  man  his  own  true  wife — what  a  lot  of 
trouble  it  would  save  ! 

(Kisses  her  again} 

Good-by.  Yet  I  am  rather  fond  of  you,  too. 


64  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 

Of  me,  too  —  rather  fond. 
(A  wry  face.) 
Good-by,  my  husband,  good-by ! 

WAYNE 
(Seriously.) 

What  has  come  over  you?  As  a  girl  you  were 
quiet,  domestic. 

CLORA 

Domestic?  Have  you  forgotten  how  we  lived  — 
grandmem,  Sally  and  I  ? 

WAYNE 
The  most  beautiful  apartment  in  all  the  city  ! 

CLORA 

As  a  lover  you  used  to  say  that.  It  was  a  mere  hutch 
on  top  of  an  apartment  house  —  built  for  the  jani 
tor.  We  were  so  poor,  it  was  that  or  the  suburbs. 
Domestic?  Quiet?  I  married  to  escape  domestic 
quiet  —  to  get  a  lover. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  65 

WAYNE 

(  With  a  touch  of  boyish  grotesque) 
To  get  me.   Cheer  up !    You  've  got  me. 
(He  makes  as  if  to  go.) 

CLORA 

(In  a  dry  tone.) 

You  speak  as  if  you  were  a  disease.  Oh,  I've  got 
you. 

WAYNE 
I  married  for  a  wife  — 

CLORA 
(Bitterly.) 
For  a  wife  like  you ! 

WAYNE 

(Still  delighted  with  the  idea) 
Don't  remind  me  of  my  lost  happiness  ! 
(Ruefully) 
I  got  a  woman  in  society. 


66  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 
(Laughing  a  little  harshly.} 

At  least  we  are  better  off  than  the  Wellowbys. 
Each  married  the  other  for  his  money,  and  be 
tween  them  they  had  n't  enough  to  buy  a  divorce. 
We  can  get  one. 

WAYNE 
Nonsense,  dear. 

CLORA 

In  reality,  with  your  work  day  and  night,  we  are 
divorced  already. 

WAYNE 

My  work  ?  Is  n't  it  your  social  climbing  ?  They 
think  they  have  to  have  you  everywhere  Iffley 
goes— without  me.  You  used  to  have  one  hour  in 
the  day  for  me. 

CLORA 

Then  I  was  bored !  You  ate  like  a  commercial  drum 
mer  at  the  station,  and  bolted  to  catch  the  train. 
Evening  after  evening  I  spent  alone— until  I 
knew  by  heart  every  spot  on  the  wall  paper  — as 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  67 

a  prisoner  knows  the  stones  of  his  cell.  I  thought 
marriage  meant  freedom — and  found  myself  a 
convict.  Even  now  when  we  meet  at  midnight,  for 
the  first  time  all  day,  you  answer  me  "yes,"  "no," 
with  the  face  of  a  pudding,  and  fall  asleep  beside 
me  like  a  log. 

WAYNE 

In  New  York  that  is  scarcely  ground  for  divorce. 
Clora,  dear ! 
{Looking  at  his  watch.) 

You  are  only  tired  out  —  suffering  from  over-ex 
cited  nerves. 

CLORA 

True — over-excited  nerves!  But  they  are  not  my 
nerves  ! 

WAYNE 

(Earnestly.) 

Are  you  quite  square  with  me  ?  To  pay  your  bills 
I  grind  myself  into  a  stupor  —  and  you  round  on 
me  for  being  dull.  I  go  short  of  sleep  for  weeks, 
until  my  nerves  are  jumping ;  and  you  find  amuse 
ment  with  —  others.  Really,  is  it  square  ? 


68  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 

Listen  to  the  heart-throbs  of  the  American  hus 
band.  The  world  thinks  you  a  poor,  driven  beast 

—  but  you  are  having  the  time  of  your  life.  The 
only  thing  you  care  for  is  work  —  and  you  revel 
in  it  day  and  night.  You  rate  me  for  extravagance 

—  you,  who  have  left  me  only  the  interests  that 
money  can  buy !  With  love  I  could  live  on  no 
thing — and  did  so,  as  long  as  you  gave  me  love. 
Give  it  again,  and  I  will  forget  the  whole  world  I 

WAYNE 
Are  you  really  unhappy  ? 

CLORA 
Yes !  Miserably  unhappy ! 

(  Vehemently^) 

You,  with  your  calm  sense  of  justice,  your  unan 
swerable  reason,  tell  me,  have  you  been  square 
to  me?  I  was  a  young  girl.  Your  strength  and 
your  love  awoke  in  me  a  whole  world  of  enjoy 
ment,  of  tenderness,  of  passion.  You  made  me 
laugh  with  you  —  and  you  can  be  amusing,  though 
heaven  knows  no  one  would  suspect  it.  You  made 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  69 

me  proud  of  you,  fear  you,  worship  you !  If  I  am 
mad  for  excitement,  it  is  you  who  taught  me  that 
madness !  Then  you  left  me  alone  and  lonesome, 
to  eat  out  my  heart  in  neglect.  We  are  divorced 
in  spirit,  and  we  shall  be  so  in  fact  1 

WAYNE 

Sweetheart!  You  are  yourself  —  you  could  n't  do 
anything  that  is  not  clean,  and  honest. 

CLORA 

That  is  your  idea  of  honesty  —  to  live  on  coldly 
with  a  man  who  has  become  a  stranger.  Virtue  is 
a  passion,  or  it  is  nothing.  It  is  warm,  warm, 
warm  ! 

WAYNE 
(Tenderly.} 

I  do  love  you,  with  all  my  heart.  And  you  love 
me.  In  all  these  five  years,  we  have  not  been  sepa 
rated  one  single  night. 

CLORA 

If  you  could  only  make  me  believe  you  —  feel  I 

believe  you ! 

(He  takes  her  in  his  arms.} 


70  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

When  people  love  each  other,  do  they  grow  so 
dreadfully  far  apart  ? 

WAYNE 
Are  we  so  dreadfully  far  apart  ? 

CLORA 

It  is  my  birthday.  I  refused  a  dinner  to  Lord  Iffley, 
hoping  you  'd  give  me  this  one  evening.  Tony,  I 
need  you  !  You  forgot  —  as  you  forgot  last  year. 
If  I  was  cross  just  now,  that 's  why ! 

WAYNE 

I  did  n't  forget. 
(Going  to  his  desk.) 

I  put  a  memorandum  on  my  calendar,  eight  days 
ago.  Only  — 

(Fumbling  the  leaves?) 

I  have  n't  had  time  since  to  tear  off  the  leaves. 

CLORA 

(Reads  the  calendar  over  his  shoulder?) 
"  Clora's  birthday.  This  time,  hump  yourself ! " 
(A  grimace?) 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  71 

WAYNE 

(He  takes  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her  play  fully ,  three 
times.) 

One  for  each  year ! 
(He  releases  her.) 

CLORA 
But  that 's  only  three. 

WAYNE 

That's  all  the  older  you  are,  child  —  or  you'd 
never  doubt  we  love  each  other. 

CLORA 

Pretend  I  'm  four. 

(He  kisses  her  in  a  perfunctory  manner^) 
Five !  I  don't  mind  a  bit  how  old  I  am. 
(He  kisses  her.) 
Six !  It 's  so  long  since  we  've  been  like  this  1 

WAYNE 

We  've  always  been  like  this. 
(As  he  says  this,  he  covertly  looks  again  at  his  watch.) 


72  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

Heavens,  I  ought  to  be  speaking  my  piece  this 

minute. 

(He  snatches  up  his  coat  and  goes  out  hurriedly?) 

CLORA 
(As  if  still  speaking  to  Wayne?) 

Always  like  this !  Love  by  time-table !  Cupid 
catching  the  train ! 

(She  sits  down,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap?) 

One  little  lover,  sitting  all  alone.  She  married  him, 
and  then  she  had  none ! 

(She  picks  up  Iff  ley's  bridge  score,  looks  at  it  with  a 
momenfs  interest,  then  wearily  throws  it  down?) 

(Enter  Sally  in  a  dinner-gown.} 

SALLY 

It 's  dinner  bridge.  I  shan't  be  back  till  the  small 
hours.  You  '11  be  here  all  alone  ?  Get  a  good  sleep, 
do. 

CLORA 

(Stifling  a  little  yawn?) 
Sleep  ?  I  'm  suffering  from  over-excited  nerves. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  73 

SALLY 

(Not  heeding  this.) 
Good-night ! 

(Exit.) 

CLORA 

(Folding  her  hands  again) 

By  this  time  the  lion  is  roaring. 

(Half  covers  a  larger  yawn.) 

(Enter  Randall.) 

RANDALL 
His  Lordship  to  see  you,  madam. 

CLORA 
Hold  dinner  till  half  past  eight. 

(Exit  Randall) 

(Clora  rises  with  animation,  and  paces  the  room-) 

(Lord  Iffley  is  announced  and  enters.  He  has  on  a  din 
ner  jacket^) 

IFFLEY 

Alone?  That's  lucky. 


74  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 

(  With  a  little  start.) 
Lucky  ? 

IFFLEY 
(  With  good-natured  embarrassment^) 

Fact  is,  I've  got  to  welch  a  bit  on  that  bridge 
score. 

CLORA 
(Relieved?) 
Oh! 

IFFLEY 
(Taking  a  check  from  his  pocket-book) 

That's  every  last  penny  I  have  in  the  bank,  and  it 
leaves  me  four  dollars  shy. 

CLORA 

(Takes  the  check  mechanically^) 
But  if  this  is  all  you  have  — 

IFFLEY 

It 's  only  a  few  days  till  my  next  remittance  —  if 
you'll  trust  me  for  the  rest? 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  75 

CLORA 
But  meantime  —  if  I  may  —   How  will  you  live  ? 

IFFLEY 
(Cheerfully^ 

I  always  dine  out.  Sometimes  I  'm  asked  to  lunch 
eon  !  For  breakfast  —  they  hang  me  up  at  your 
hospitable  clubs. 

CLORA 
But  pocket  money !  I  can't  leave  you  destitute ! 

IFFLEY 

(Lightly,  but  with  latent  dignity?) 
Mind  your  own  business,  fair  lady  1 

CLORA 
(Protesting?) 
Edmund  1 

IFFLEY 
Clorinda ! 

CLORA 
Show  me  that  you  have  pocket  money ! 


76  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

IFFLEY 
Is  this  what  you  call  a  hold-up  ? 

CLORA 
Show  me  a  single  dollar ! 

IFFLEY 
You  do  like  havin*  your  own  way. 

CLORA 
Half  a  dollar ! 

IFFLEY 
And  you '11  drop  the  subject? 

CLORA 
Agreed. 

IFFLEY 

(Produces  a  half  dollar,  flips  it  in  the  air,  and  pockets 
it  with  a  grin.) 

You  are  a  good  sort,  Clorinda.  Honor  bright,  if  I 
really  needed  money,  I  'd  as  soon  borrow  from  you 
as  any  f elleh ! 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  77 

CLORA 
Then  let  me — 

(She  moves  to  tear  up  the  check.) 

IFFLEY 

(Taking  her  firmly  by  the  hands.) 
No,  no,  You  shan't  boss  me! 

CLORA 
(Resigning  her  hands  to  him) 

With  this  matter  on  hand,  you  must  keep  up  ap 
pearances. 

IFFLEY 

(Dropping  her  hands) 
Wretched  business.  Don't  remind  me. 

CLORA 

But  if  it  falls  through!  Tony  is  doing  his  best 
against  you.  Miss  Schuyler  asked  my  advice.  I 
could  n't  encourage  her. 

IFFLEY 
Nor  I.  The  day  I — asked  her,  I  —  what  do  you 


78  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

call  it  —  I  fell  off  the  sprinklin'  wagon.  For  two 
years  I  'd  been  —  up  with  the  driver,  smackin'  the 
whip. 

CLORA 
Then  why,  why  do  you  do  it? 

IFFLEY 

I  want  to  go  in  for  politics.  Among  my  disagree 
able  traits  is  a  sense  of  public  duty.  I  'm  feahfully 
keen  about  the  Empire  !  But  I '  ve  an  uncle  —  one 
Earl,  and  a  cousin,  his  noble  heir  .  .  . 

CLORA 
I  know. 

IFFLEY 

They  detest  me.  My  pasty-faced  cousin  was  Master 
of  Hounds.  He 's  a  rotten  horseman  and  they  made 
me  Master  in  his  place.  Made 'em  peevish;  —  tied 
up  my  money,  on  a  technicality.  And  there 's  a  sort 
of  a  tradition  —  coves  like  me  are  always  marryin' 
money. 

(Enter  Randall  with  a  long,  slender  florist's  box.) 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  79 

RANDALL 

A  package  for  you,  madam. 
(Exit.) 

CLORA 

(Opening  the  box) 
A  single,  splendid  rose.  Who  could  have  sent  it  ? 

IFFLEY 
Oh,  charmin'?  What  did  you  say  you  advised? 

CLORA 
I  can't  interfere. 

IFFLEY 
The  trouble  is,  you  have  interfered. 

CLORA 

I? 

IFFLEY 

Until  I  met  you,  I  was  all  for  the  main  chance. 

But  by  heaven,  you  're  a  new  sort  on  me  ! 

(As  if  accusing  her.) 

Do  you  know  that  you  have  a  man's  sense  of 


8o  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

honor,  and  of  comradeship  !  You  have  shown  me 
your  whole  frank  heart,  and  it  has  called  out  a  na 
ture  that  is  better  than  my  best.  I  spare  you  the 
mention  of  sundry  eyes  and  a  smile  —  that  worry 
me  enough,  however. 

(  With  quiet  but  intense  passion.} 

With  you  here,  good  God,  how  can  I  do  it !  Every 
time  I  think  of  it  I  find  myself — climbin'  down 
from  that  sprinklin'  cart. 

(Clora   covers  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  Iffley  walks 
away  from  her  toward  the  window.} 

(Reenter  Randall  with  another  and  similar  box.) 

CLORA 
(Opening  it} 
Another !  Two  people  thought  of  the  same  ? 

(She puts  it  in  another  vase.} 

(To  Randall.} 

Did  they  come  together  ? 

RANDALL 
Yes,  madam. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  81 

IFFLEY 
CharmhV. 

(Mocking.) 

How  beautifully  you  arrange  flowers !  Now  if  I 
were  doing  it  — 

(He  takes  her  hand,  and  picking  up  the  rose,  drops  it  in 
the  same  position?) 

That  isn't  half  as  pretty.  You  do  it  right,  Clo- 
rinda. 

(He  does  not,  however,  let  go  of  her  hand.} 

CLORA 

( Withdrawing  it.) 
Edmund  ! 
(Reenter  Randall  with  a  third  box  like  the  rest} 

IFFLEY 
Another !  By  Jove ! 

CLORA 

Who  can  be  sending  them !  Three  ! 
(To  Randall.) 
Are  there  any  more? 


82  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

RANDALL 
No  more,  madam. 
(Exit.} 

CLORA 

Three !  It  must  be  Tony !    My  birthday !   One  for 
each  year ! 

IFFLEY 

Three?    You're  gettin'   along,   Clorinda,  gettin' 
along. 

CLORA 

Think  of  Tony's  remembering !  He  took  time  on 
his  way  to  his  meeting!  Cupid  caught  the  train  ! 
(  With  animation  she  goes  to  the  desk} 

I  '11  write  him  a  note  —  to  be  delivered  while  he's 
tearing  the  public  to  bits. 

IFFLEY 

(Following  her,  takes  her  hand,  and  tries  to  prevent  her 
writing} 

I  would  n't !   I  would  n't ! 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  83 

CLORA 
You  remember  what  Philip  said  at  bridge? 

IFFLEY 

"  Make  my  fortune  "  —  the  rascal  — "  in  a  massadj 
parlor." 

CLORA 

This  is  not  a  massage  parlor. 

IFFLEY 
( With  dignity.) 

Clorinda  ! 

CLORA 

And  it 's  not  here  your  fortune  awaits  you  1 

IFFLEY 
(Proudly) 

I  stand  rebuked. 

CLORA 

Ring  for  Randall,  and  tell  him  to  call  a  messenger. 

(Iffley  rings,  though  with  evident  reluctance.) 
(Clora  writes) 
(Enter  Randall) 


84  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

IFFLEY 

(Crossing  to  the  door.) 
A  messenger. 
(In  a  lowered  voice?) 
Very  well  done,  Randall. 
(He  puts  the  half  dollar  in  RandalVs  hand?) 

RANDALL 
I  thank  your  Lordship. 

CLORA 
(Looks  about  and  sees  this.  Her  face  changes?) 

Never  mind,   Randall.    I  shan't  need   the   mes 
senger. 

(Randall  bows  and  goes  out.) 

It  was  you,  Edmund,  who  sent  the  flowers !  You 
remembered  my  birthday ! 

IFFLEY 
Remembered ! 

CLORA 
And  it  was  to  prevent  embarrassing  me  —  and 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  85 

Tony — that  you  stayed  my  hand!    For  what  I 

said,  I  'm  humbly  sorry  ! 

(Reflecting^ 

But  how  did  you  happen  to  send  just  three? 

IFFLEY 

If  you  insist  on  sordid  details  —  it  was  all  I  had 
money  for,  with  the  half  crown  for  the  man. 

CLORA 

And  I  was  writing  to  thank  Tony ! 
(She  rises  and  laughs  harshly  1) 

IFFLEY 
What's  the  matter?  Don't!  Don't! 

CLORA 

(Hysterically. ) 
Husband !  Husband! 

IFFLEY 

Good  God,  if  I  were ! 
(He  takes  her  in  his  arms.) 


86  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 

No! 

(She  struggles  free?) 

Leave  me.   Go! 

IFFLEY 

(Standing  away  from  her.) 
Go — where?  To  the  devil,  where  I  belong! 

(Enter  Randall.) 

RANDALL 
Dinner  is  served,  madam. 

(Exit.) 

IFFLEY 
Good-night. 

CLORA 

(Observing  his  clothes.) 
You  're  not  dining  out  ? 

IFFLEY 
I  telephoned  that  I  was  ill. 

CLORA 
Telephone  that  you  're  better,  and  they  '11  wait. 


ACT  i]  HUSBAND  87 

IFFLEY 

I  couldn't  go  now  —  meet  people  —  now!  What 
do  you  think  a  man  is  made  of !  It  would  drive 
me  —  off  the  sprinklin'  cart. 

CLORA 
But  where  will  you  dine? 

IFFLEY 
At  the  club. 

CLORA 

Ah  !  And  —  the  water  wagon  ? 
(On  a  siidden  resolution!) 
No  1  Stay  with  me.  I  ordered  dinner  for  two.      ^ 

(She  takes  a  rose,  and  breaking  the  stem  puts  it  in  his 
lapel.) 

IFFLEY 

(Misunderstanding-  her,  looks  at  her  with  a  deep  gleam 
in  his  eye.) 

I  love  you. 

(He  takes  her  by  the  shoulders) 

I  love  vou. 


88  HUSBAND  [ACT  i 

CLORA 

(Adroitly  evading  him) 
No,  no,  child  1 
(Holding1  up  both  palms?) 
All  gone.  All  gone  ! 

(Iffley  follows  and  catches  her  firmly  in  his  arms.) 

CLORA 
No!  No! 
(She  throws  her  head  back  from  him) 

IFFLEY 
(His  voice  vibrating  with  passion  and  with  command) 

You  wonderful  girl,  what  have  you  done  to  me  ! 
Good  God,  say  that  you  love  me !  Say  it,  or  I  '11 
crush  the  life  out  of  you ! 

(She  gives  a  little,  stifled  cry  of  pain.  He  kisses  her 
full  upon  the  lips.  Her  head  sinks  tipon  his  shoulder) 

CURTAIN 


ACT   II 


ACT  II 

SCENE  :  —  Mrs.  Wayne  s  drawing-room.  An  air  of  lux 
ury ,  in  striking  contrast  with  the  simplicity  of  Wayne1  s 
study.  The  furniture  is  Louis  XV  gilded.  On  the 
lower  left  a  table  is  set  for  tea.  The  walls  are  of 
crimson  brocade.  A  low  bookcase  is  filled  with  a 
variety  of  handsomely  bound  books.  The  apartment 
occupies  the  full  width  of  the  second  story  front  of 
a  rather  small  modern  city  dwelling. 

DISCOVERED  :  —  Sally,  at  the  tea  table,  dealing  the 
cards  for  Canfield. 

SALLY 

( With  solemn  disgust?) 
Did  you  ever  see  such  a  rotten  layout ! 

(Enter  Mrs.  Jones,  announced  by  Randall.  She  is  sev 
enty,  and  dressed  in  black  silk  and  lace,  but  with 
more  than  a  touch  of  coquetry  and  smartness.  She 
has  the  conventionally  audacious  sense  of  humor,  but 
her  manner  reveals  dignity  and  sweetness  of  char 
acter?) 


92  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

SALLY 

Hello,  grandmem  !  These  cards  come  worse  every 
time.  I  owe  Mr.  Canfield  eleven  hundred  dollars. 
Lucky  he  does  n't  know  it  —  for  his  own  peace  of 
mind !  Will  you  have  tea  ? 

(She  lights  a  lamp  beneath  the  kettle?) 

MRS.  JONES 
Solitaire  at  tea  ? 

SALLY 
Nobody  ever  comes. 

MRS.  JONES 
Wait  till  you  Jre  married. 

SALLY 

(In  mock  despair?) 
How  shall  I  ever  be  married,  if  nobody  ever  comes  ? 

MRS.  JONES 

You  have  no  savoir  faire.  I  made  your  grandfather 
take  me  out  skating  on  the  mill-pond.  I  fell  in,  and 
he  had  to  carry  me  bodily  home.  I  froze  both  feet 
and  an  elbow. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  93 

(Nibbling  a  crumpet?) 

But  for  once  in  his  life  your   dear   grandfather 
thawed. 

SALLY 

Maysie-mem  ! 
(Mock  tragically?) 

In  Central  Park  they  keep  you  off  till  the  ice  is 
solid  as  a  cellar  floor.. 

MRS.  JONES 

This  unnatural  modern  life  in  cities ! 
(Demurely?) 
But  Clora's  young  men  —  she  can't  want  them  all? 

SALLY 

There  are  n't  any  more  —  since  Lord  Iffley  .  .  . 
Not  that  I  want  them. 

MRS.  JONES 
Not  want  to  be  married  ! 

SALLY 
Of  course  I  do.   But  not  that  kind. 


94  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

MRS.  JONES 
What  kind? 

SALLY 

Men  who  hang  about  married  women  —  mere 
poachers,  paper  sports.  If  one  of  them  found  him 
self  caring  for  a  girl  he  might  have  to  marry,  and 
pay  her  bills,  he  'd  have  heart  failure. 

MRS.  JONES 
You  are  judging  by  Lord  Iffley  ? 

SALLY 
Strangely  enough,  no  !  He 's  a  man  —  dangerous. 

MRS.  JONES 
(Eyeing  her  narrowly.} 
Dangerous  —  to  you  ? 

SALLY 
(Laughing^ 

Little  mouse  Sally  —  can  you  see  me  as  Her  Lady 
ship? 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  95 

MRS.  JONES 

Why  not  ?  He 's  neglecting  Miss  Schuyler  dread 
fully. 

SALLY 

Maysie  !  Ask  your  elder  grand-daughter. 
(Enter  Mrs.  Denton,  announced?) 

MRS.  JONES 
How  is  that  dear  genius  of  a  husband  of  yours? 

MRS.  DENTON 

Don't  remind  me  !  Laid  up  with  grip  and  a  raging 
fever.  Worry  and  overwork  !  Poor  boy,  his  whole 
heart  is  in  a  great  canvas  he  's  blocked  out. 

SALLY 
(Interested?) 

He  has  such  wonderful  ideas  !  Some  day  you  '11 
wake  up  to  find  yourself  the  wife  of  a  great,  great 
painter ! 

MRS.  DENTON 
He 's  had  to  put  by  all  serious  work  for  six  months 


96  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

—  to  do  illustrations.  Last  night  he  went  quite  off 
his  head  —  imagined  the  dear  little  grip  microbes 
were  duns,  digging  at  his  temples  to  get  away 
his  brains.  At  midnight  he  woke  me  up  and  told 
me  that  a  subway  express,  full  of  strap-hanging 
microbes,  was  roaring  up  his  spinal  column  and 
crashing  into  his  brains  at  the  Grand  Central  Sta 
tion.  It 's  all  my  fault. 

MRS.  JONES 
Your  fault  ? 

MRS.  DENTON 
The  mortgage  on  the  house. 

MRS.  JONES 
(Sympathetically . ) 

Too  bad.  But  never  let  him  forget,  dear,  how 
lucky  he  is  —  that  he  has  you  ! 

MRS.  DENTON 
(Dejectedly^) 

When  he  sees  me,  he  only  worries  harder.  And  I 
can't  afford  to  go  away. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  97 

(Lightly,  but  by  no  means  flippantly.} 

When  other  men  are  sick,  the  doctors  send  their 
wives  to  Atlantic  City  —  for  the  dear  fellows' 
health. 

SALLY 
(Sincerely  1) 

Oh,  I  am  sorry ! 

MRS.  JONES 

(  Taking  Mrs.  Dentoris  hand} 
Don't  mind  the  duns. 
(  With  motherly  benignity} 

If  one  paid  them,  how  would  the  poor  fellows  get 
any  work  ?  Not  to  pay  them  is  a  duty  we  owe  to 
the  unemployed. 

MRS.  DENTON 
(  With  forced  gayety. ) 

At  least  Archie  has  the  new  house  to  be  laid  up 
in.  The  artistic  temperament  is  so  sensitive  to  en 
vironment.  If  he  were  as  sick  as  he  is,  in  our 
shabby  old  studio  flat  —  it  would  make  him  fairly 
ill! 


98  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

SALLY 

(  With  serio-comic  solicitude) 
Oh,  I  hope  Archie  understands  that. 

MRS.  DENTON 

I  explained  it  last  night.  He  saw  the  point  at  once 
—  his  mind  was  so  active —and  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

SALLY 
(Mock  coyly.) 

Nobody  asks  me  about  Alfonso. 

MRS.  DENTON 
I  forgot !  He  has  appendicitis  ? 

SALLY 
(Solemnly.) 

It  wasn't  his  appendix  at  all,  the  doctor  said  — 
only  his  table  of  contents. 

MRS.  DENTON 
So  Alfonso  has  a  less  abundant  table. 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  99 

SALLY 

Precisely.  But  he 's  developed  pinkeye.  He  says 
he  caught  it  for  my  sake.  We  Jve  been  married 
ten  years,  but  with  his  pinkeye  he  still  sees  me 
couleur  de  rose. 

MRS.  DENTON 

No  husband  should  be  without  it !  Tony,  for  ex 
ample.  Those  awful  articles  —  the  papers  are  full 
of  them. 

SALLY 

Somebody  ought  to  speak  to  Clora. 
(To  Mrs.  Denton.) 
Why  not  you  ? 

MRS.  DENTON 
I  spoke  —  yesterday. 
(Shrugs  her  shoulders?) 

SALLY 

(To  her  grandmother.} 
Isn't  it  up  to  you,  Maysie? 


ioo  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

MRS.  JONES 

I   can't  pretend   to   superior  virtue.    Long  past 
Clora's  age  I  was  doing  the  same.  Your  grand 
father  was  a  sensible  dear  —  said  it  did  him  good 
to  be  spelled.    Besides, 
(  With  half -conscious  vanity) 

Clora  would  only  think  I  wanted  Lord  Iffley  my 
self. 

SALLY 
But  for  Tony's  sake  — 

MRS.  JONES 

It 's  Tony's/z^///  If  you  speak  to  any  one,  speak 
to  Tony. 

SALLY 
Maysie,  you  are  an  ancient  reprobate. 

MRS.  JONES 

Hoity-toity !    Did  Tony  ever  share  his  life  with 
Clora  —  make  her  his  comrade  ? 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  101 

« 
SALLY 

He  took  her  among  his  people  —  in  the  Ghetto. 
She  bossed  them  within  an  inch  of  their  lives  — 
tried  to  improve  their  manners !  The  only  result 
was  that  she  herself  began  doing  so  ! 

(A  flicker  of  her  palm  beneath  her  chin.) 

MRS.  JONES 
At  least  she  could  help  him  with  politicians. 

SALLY 

He  asked  her  to.  She  tried  to  force  afternoon  tea 
on  them.  Beyond  certain  limits,  even  a  politician 
won't  be  bossed.  Tea !  They  refused  to  be  water 
logged. 

MRS.  JONES 
Why  did  n't  he  ask  them  to  dinner  ? 

SALLY 

He  did.  She  overawed  them  so,  with  her  low 
gowns  and  her  air  of  high  life,  that  they  ate  on  the 
sly  —  as  if  they  were  stuffing  ballot-boxes. 


102  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

MRS.  JONES 
(Philosophically^ 

American  life  !  It  is  hardest  of  all  on  women  — who 
stand  for  culture. 

SALLY 

American  life?  Culture?  If  Clora  had  children  — 
she 's  simply  eaten  up  with  the  maternal  instinct ! 

MRS.  JONES 

Clora? 

SALLY 

That 's  why  she  bosses  every  one.  If  she  had  a 
nursery  to  run,  she  'd  let  up  on  Tony. 

(Demurely^) 

Now  Alfonso  and  I  ...  You  know  we  're  ex 
pect — 

MRS.  JONES 

Sally  !  !  You  're  positively  Mid- Victorian.  You 
remind  me  of  my  greenest  girlhood.  Listen.  Once, 
on  a  park  bench,  a  man  spoke  to  me  ... 

SALLY 
Maysie !   You  zxefin  de  siecle! 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  103 

MRS.  JONES 

Alas !  This  was  no  affaire  du  cceur.  A  poor, 
wretched  fellow.  His  wife,  the  mother  of  his  eight 
children,  had  eloped  with  the  plumber.  "  Now 
you  'd  think  that  would  have  satisfied  her,"  he 
said,  "  eight  children !  "  I  told  him  no,  not  for  a 
minute.  She  was  a  woman,  and  what  a  woman 
wants  is  love. 

(Enter  Philip  Roberts.   He  greets  Sally  heartily  and 
kisses  Mrs.  Jones.) 

PHILIP 

I  'm  lucky  to  find  you  all.  Before  any  one  comes 
in  —  that  rotten  article  yesterday !  Some  anony 
mous  blackguard  has  reprinted  it,  and  is  sending 
it  by  the  thousand  to  every  voter  on  the  East  Side. 

MRS.  JONES 

It 's  too  absurd  !  What  have  Muriel  Schuyler  and 
her  sprig  of  nobility  to  do  with  politics ! 

PHILIP 
Nothing  at  all  —  except  everything.    That  article 


104  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

cuts  both  ways.  Decent  people  are  shocked  at 
what  it  says  about  Clora.  The  socialists  are  calling 
Tony  the  title-hunting  democrat,  the  Shadchen  of 
swollen  fortunes.  Tammany  says  that  to  win  now 
will  be  taking  candy  from  a  kid. 

SALLY 

And  Clora  still  sees  Lord  Iffley  !  Somebody  must 
pull  her  up ! 

MRS.  DENTON 
As  Tony's  partner  and  friend,  why  not  you? 

PHILIP 
Hardly  a  man's  work. 

(Enter  Miss  Schuyler.    An  embarrassed  paused) 

SALLY 

(Greeting  her.} 
We  were  just  talking  of  you  —  that  is,  of  Clora. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
(Relieved.) 

Yes !  It  was  about  that  I  came. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  105 

MRS.  DENTON 
(To  Sally  and  Mrs.  Jones.) 
I  must  run  along. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Could  you  wait  a  moment?  Perhaps  you  could 
advise  us.  A  reporter  forced  his  way  into  the 
house.  I  overheard  him. 

(Embarrassed. ) 
It 's  too  dreadful. 
(Philip  moves  away) 
Philip,  please  stay ! 
(Philip  returns) 
Something  must  be  done ! 

SALLY 
I  seem  to  have  heard  that  sentiment  before. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Last  night,  after  midnight  but  before  Mr.  Wayne 
came  in,  the  reporter  saw  Lord  Iffley  leaving 
here. 


106  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

MRS.  JONES 
Really,  I  'm  surprised  at  Clora. 

PHILIP 

It  simply  is  n't  true !  That 's  a  lie  they  won't  dare 
to  print ! 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

I  think  it  may  be  true. 

SALLY 
(Sliarpfy.) 
Miss  Schuyler ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Oh,  no !  Not  that !  Yesterday  Mrs.  Wayne  and  I 
had  a  long  talk  —  about  the  marriage.  She  spoke 
to  me  as  no  one  else  ever  has  —  like  a  sister,  a 
good  girl  friend.  She  would  n't  advise  me ;  but 
I  'm  sure  that  last  night  she  was  talking  matters 
over  with  Lord  Iffley. 

MRS.  JONES 
Certainly.  We  must  assume  that. 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  107 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

Mr.  Wayne  has  always  been  against  —  what 
mother  wants.  I  simply  can't  let  them  suffer.  So  I 
told  the  reporter  how  good  they  have  been.  He 
was  horrid  —  said  that  was  the  campaign  story, 
but  would  n't  go  down  with  the  people. 

PHILIP 
Gossiping  cats ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

The  reporter  said  it  was  known  I  had  publicly  cut 
Mrs.  Wayne. 

PHILIP 
The  tom-cats  are  worst ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
(Faintly  smiling?) 

Thank  you,  Philip.  My  answer  was  to  come  to 
call  on  Clorinda. 

PHILIP 
You  are  a  sportsman,  Muriel  —  an  eternal  corker ! 


io8  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

SALLY 

We  little  mice  were  just  discussing  which  would 
bell  the  cat. 

(Kissing  her.) 
You  have  done  it ! 

(Enter  Clora  and  Lord  Iffley.    Miss  Schuyler  is  about 
to  kiss  Clora.) 

CLORA 
(Draws  back,  but  speaks  with  enthusiasm) 

It  was  darling  of  you  to  come  1  The  reporter  has 
followed  your  car. 

SALLY 
And  has  seen  you  again  with  Lord  Iffley ! 

IFFLEY 
It  was  really  rippin',  Miss  Schuyler  —  Muriel ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
(Coldly.) 

Thank  you,  Edmund  —  Lord  Iffley. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  109 

IFFLEY 

When  you  go  it  would  help,  would  n't  it,  if  I  were 
to  appear  out  there  —  put  you  in  your  car  ? 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

(Significantly.} 

I'm  a  little  puzzled  about  the  etiquette  in  such 
matters.  We  might  refer  that  also  to  your  lawyer. 

IFFLEY 
(Angrily.} 
Miss  Schuyler ! 

(Miss  Schuyler  turns  away  and  sits  with  Philip.) 

IFFLEY 
(Turning  to  Sally  to  cover  the  snub.) 

A  cup  of  tea?  And  how  is  your  dear  husband  — 
Alfonso  ? 

SALLY 

(Significantly) 
Faithful  and  true,  Lord  Iffley.  Faithful  and  true. 


no  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

IFFLEY 
(Offended) 
Oh! 

(He  takes  his  ctip  and  sits  beside  Mrs.  Jones,  who  en 
gages  him  in  conversation.) 

CLORA 

(To  Mrs.  Denton.) 

The  article  you  proposed  —  Lord  Iffley  has  no  ob 
jection  if  Miss  Schuyler  has  none. 

(To  Miss  Schuyler.) 

Mrs.  Denton  says  it  would  make  all  the  difference 
to  Tony  if  she  described  in  the  papers  what  hap 
pened  yesterday — how  Tony  entertained  you  here. 
You  understand  —  a  sop  to  the  pee-pul. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
Gladly  —  if  it  would  help ! 

MRS.  DENTON 
(To  Clora) 

The  whole  matter  hinges  on  making*  Tony  out  a 
real  democrat.  May  I  put  in  the  shirtsleeves  ? 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  in 

CLORA 

Paint  him,  if  you  will,  as  a  sans  culotte  !    He  would 
go  without  trousers,  if  it  were  n't  for  the  police. 


MRS.  DENTON 
And  may  I  add  what  has  happened  here  just  now? 

CLORA 
Just  now  ? 

MRS.  DENTON 

The  gossip — you  know  —  contrasted  with  the 
truth. 

CLORA 
Contrasted  with  the  truth.  Oh,  yes ! 

MRS.  DENTON 

The  whole  affair  will  become  ridiculous.  The  best 
way  to  win  the  public  is  to  make  it  laugh. 

(Low,  but  with  deep  rejoicing^) 

You  know,  dear,  what  this  means  to  me :  interest  on 
the  mortgage,  bills  —  everything !  You  would  n't 
believe  what  they  pay  for  a  beat  like  this.  And 


ii2  HUSBAND  [ACT  ii 

Archie  is  so  sick,  so  worried  !  In  another  moment 
I  shall  be  weeping  on  your  neck ! 

(Exit.) 

PHILIP 
(To  Miss  Schuyler.) 

You  have  been  magnificent,  but  —  your  motor  is 
outside,  champing  its  bit. 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

Will  you  take  me  out? 

(They  start.) 

CLORA 

(Abruptly.) 

The  reporter  is  still  there.  Lord  Iffley  will  go  home 
with  you  —  and  mother  for  chaperone. 

MRS.  JONES 
Surely ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Would  n't  that  look  too  much  like  what  it  is  —  a 
put-up  game  ?  But  if  Lord  Iffley  will  go  as  far  as 
the  car  — 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  113 

CLORA 

(Persistently.) 
I  think  my  plan  better  — 

(Miss  Schuylerdoes  not  answer  Clora,  but  goes  out  with 
Mrs.  Jones,  Philip,  and  Lord  Iffley.) 

SALLY 

(Her  forearms  on  Clora' s  shoulder?) 
Sister,  sister !  What  does  it  mean ! 

CLORA 

(Half  to  herself,  as  if  under  a  strong  spell.) 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  am  really  happy ! 

SALLY 
I  was  thinking  of  Lord  Iffley. 

CLORA 
And  what  of  him? 

SALLY 

He 's  a  simple,  manly  boy.  You  're  making  him 
desperately  unhappy ! 


ii4  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

CLORA 
On  my  life,  you  are  jealous ! 

SALLY 
Clora!  Don't  be  mad.  Think,  dear— think! 

(Reenter  Iffley^ 

CLORA 
You  let  Miss  Schuyler  go  —  with  Philip ! 

IFFLEY 

It  was  a  dilemma.  But  she  grasped  it  by  the  horns. 
She  introduced  the  reporter  to  us  all,  then  took 
him  in  the  car  —  left  us  all  flabbergasted  on  the 
curb.  You  should  have  seen  the  fellow !  Looked 
as  if  a  princess  had  chosen  him  at  drop-the-hand- 
kerchief.  He  '11  write  what  she  tells  him,  all  right ! 
She 's  got  him  in  her  little  pocket.  By  Jove,  that 
girl  is  a  ripper. 

CLORA 

You  are  finding  that  out  ?  Then,  if  you  are  wise, 
you  will  follow  her. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  115 

SALLY 

(At  the  door.) 

Now,  Clora,  you  are  thinking! 
(Exit.) 

CLORA 
Believe  me  —  before  it  is  too  late. 

IFFLEY 
(Hurt.) 
You  advise  this  —  now! 

CLORA 

It  is  now  for  you  or  never.  She  has  all  but  broken 
the  engagement. 

IFFLEY 

I  will  see  that  she  does  break  it,  this  very  night. 
That 's  only  square  to  her. 

CLORA 

You  know  what  Muriel  is.  Coves  like  you,  you  say, 
are  always  marrying  money.  The  thing  that  still 
may  be  yours — have  you  ever  imagined  anything 
more  perfect? 


ii6  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

IFFLEY 

Imagined !  I  know  it.  You,  Clorinda  —  you  1  You 
buck  a  felleh  up  to  all  that 's  best  in  him,  and 
stand  there  beside  him,  his  comrade. 

CLORA 
(Resolutely.) 
Muriel  is  that  —  much  more. 

IFFLEY 

You  say  so.  And  if  she  were  —  to  go  to  her,  now ! 
It  would  be  false  to  myself,  false  to  you,  too,  Clo 
rinda —  falsest  of  all  to  her. 

CLORA 
And  with  me,  is  there  no  falsehood,  no  deceit  ? 

IFFLEY 

Say  the  word,  and,  by  heaven,  there  shall  be  none ! 
I  still  have  the  Manor  shoot  and  two  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  There  we  can  live  our  best  lives, 
in  frankness  and  honor  to  each  other. 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  117 

CLORA 
And  have  you  no  regret  ? 

IFFLEY 
Not  one ! 

CLORA 

Remember !  If  this  is  the  real  world,  and  no  fool's 
paradise,  we  shall  look  at  everything  squarely. 
Scandal,  an  American  divorce,  remarriage  —  just 
what  will  it  mean  in  England  ? 

IFFLEY 
Happiness!  Happiness!  And  again  happiness! 

CLORA 

But  politics  —  your  career!  You  are  "fearfully 
keen  about  the  Empire." 

IFFLEY 
Without  money? 

CLORA 
That  is  bad.  But  there  's  still  what  you  call  huntin' ! 


n8  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

IFFLEY 

My  pious  uncle  and  cousin  might  not  ask  us  to 
subscribe  to  the  hunt. 

(Smiling.) 

It  would  n't  matter.  We  could  n't  afford  that 
either. 

CLORA 

But  if  they  cut  you,  the  whole  county  would  fol 
low  them !  We  should  be  thrown  back  on  our 
selves  —  on  the  gentry  who  marry  chorus  girls. 

IFFLEY 

For  myself,  I  had  n't  even  thought  of  it.  The 
world  and  its  ways  are  nothin',  now  I  have  you  1 
But  you  would  find  it  hard.  You  have  thought  of 
that? 

CLORA 
I  have  thought  of  it. 

IFFLEY 
(Anxiously '.) 
And  thinking —  you  have  been  unhappy? 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  119 

CLORA 

(Abstracted,  exalted^) 

I  have  been  living  in  a  new  world.  But  it  is  the 
real  world  —  the  world  of  freedom  1 

IFFLEY 

Of  freedom?  All  afternoon,  beneath  our  happi 
ness,  I  have  felt  somethin'  sad  —  an  undertone ! 
You  don't  doubt  me  —  my  love  ? 

CLORA 

(  With  a  little  start) 

A  man  is  always  to  be  doubted.  Yet,  Edmund,  to 
this  moment  I  had  forgotten  even  that !  And  I 
don't  doubt  you  now. 

IFFLEY 

Yet  there 's  been  somethin' !  Tell  me.  As  our  love 
is  to  be  honest  and  free,  tell  me  ! 

CLORA 
(Simply) 
The  undertone.  To-day  as  we  rode  up  the  Avenue, 


120  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

through  the  park,  my  hand  was  in  yours  ;  my 
heart  was  in  yours.  In  my  soul  was  the  spirit  of 
freedom !  Yet,  through  my  veil,  through  the  half- 
shaded  windows,  I  saw  the  streets  I  love  so  well ; 
the  rocks  and  the  grass  ;  the  gay  autumn  trees 
beneath  the  sparkling  sky ;  the  old  friends  who 
passed  us  unheeding.  All  I  have  been  was  there  ; 
till  to-day  all  I  had  hoped  for.  It  was  as  if  my 
lost  girlhood  looked  in  at  the  window,  wreeping  in 
the  beautiful  sunlight.  All  day  it  has  been  crying 
out  to  me,  dumbly,  farewell! 

IFFLEY 
(Sadly) 
And  you  regret  it. 

CLORA 

(Bravely) 

No !  After  all,  it  is  the  little  conventional  world  I 
am  leaving.  In  my  deepest  spirit  I  have  not  one 
regret !  I  am  free,  free,  free !  Yet  that  word,  fare 
well,  has  been  sounding  in  my  heart.  You  don't 
understand  ?  Listen !  As  a  child  I  was  a  prisoner 
—  in  the  nursery,  with  my  playthings.  The  world 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  121 

of  the  young  girl  called  me  —  the  world  of  free 
dom.  I  put  away  my  playthings.  Yet  as  I  did  so,  I 
cried  over  each  one.  I  have  them  upstairs  in  an  old 
trunk  ;  you  shall  see  them.  When  you  came,  again 
I  was  a  prisoner.  Life  had  closed  round  about  me  ; 
stone  .walls  and  iron  bars.  To-day  I  have  put  by  my 
later  dolls.  Always,  Edmund,  always  they  will  be 
there,  laid  away  in  the  darkness  of  my  heart.  And 
always  they  will  be  wet  with  tears.  But  now  as 
then  I  follow  the  call  of  freedom  —  without  regret. 
Edmund,  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you ! 

(He  reaches  out  to  her.  She  throws  wide  her  arms.  He 
embraces  her.) 

IFFLEY 
I  pray  God  I  may  prove  worthy  of  such  love  ! 

CLORA 

(Standing  apart  from  him,  archly  1) 
Do  you  doubt  it  ? 

IFFLEY 

(After  a  slight  pause?) 
No. 


122  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

CLORA 
(Detecting  the  pause. ) 

You  do  doubt  it!  I  feel  it  —  you  too  have  the 
undertone !  Truth  for  truth,  Edmund !  To  be  si 
lent  now  is  to  lie  to  me ! 

IFFLEY 
(Hesitates  a  moment?) 

Tony  Wayne  is  the  salt  of  the  earth.  I  have  been 
—  I  am  —  his  guest.  I  don't  like  the  trick  we  're 
playin'  him. 

CLORA 
The  trick  we  are  playing  him  ? 

IFFLEY 

Being  the  girl  you  are,  you  must  have  thought  of 
that. 

CLORA 

What  /  am  doing  —  yes  !  But  you  !  What  you  are 
doing  to  Tony  —  always  you  will  think  of  our  love 
as  ...  something  black,  revolting  ?  The  truth  ! 
Up  to  now,  you  have  been  honor  itself. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  123 

IFFLEY 
Then  why  distrust  me  ? 

CLORA 

(In  sudden  illumination.") 

Great  heaven,  it  is  because  of  your  honor  I  dis 
trust  you ! 

(He  grasps  her  by  both  hands  to  draw  her  to  him  ;  but 
with  impulsive  strength  she  throws  him  off.) 

CLORA 
No.  I  must  think! 

IFFLEY 

(Reaching  out  both  hands.) 
Clorinda  —  love ! 

CLORA 

(Hesitates  ;  then  quickly  presses  the  bell.) 
No !  Leave  me  ! 

IFFLEY 

Order  me  out !  Clorinda !  If  we  have  misgivings 
now,  how  shall  we  be  brave  in  the  years  to  come  ! 


124  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

CLORA 
That  is  the  question.   I  must  think — think  1 

(Enter  Randall^ 

RANDALL 
Miss  Levine  to  see  you,  madam. 

CLORA 
Show  Lord  Iffley  out. 

IFFLEY 

(Standing  erect,  as  one  used  to  command) 
I  shall  be  back  before  the  hour  is  past. 
(To  Randall,  who  has  started  to  go  out.) 
Then  you  will  admit  me. 
(To  Clora,  low  but  firmly) 

And  you  will  give  me  your  answer  —  then  or  never. 
If  you  love  me,  you  will  come  ! 

(Enter  Miss  Levine.  She  steps  aside  at  the  door  as 
Iffley  passes  and  looks  him  tip  and  down.  Randall 
announces  her,  and  follows  Iffley  out) 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  125 

CLORA 
( Vexed.) 
You  should  have  waited  below. 

Miss  LEVINE 
I  am  assigned  to  interview  you. 

(Shows  a  circular^} 

The  scandal  of  yesterday,  reprinted.  On  the  East 
Side  the  streets  are  littered  with  them.  Seeing 
what  I  have  seen,  I  need  scarcely  ask  you  if  it  is 
true. 

CLORA 

(In  sudden  anger  ^ 
You  will  ask  me  nothing ! 

(She  presses  the  electric  button^) 

Miss  LEVINE 

Oh,  you  will  have  the  butler  show  me  the  door ! 
It  is  not  I  who  have  insulted  you,  but  your  own 
deeds  —  something  in  your  heart  that  is  black 
and  nauseous. 


126  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

CLORA 

(Pauses,  reflecting!) 

If  the  thing  you  imagine  were  true, 

(Acidly) 

I  should  want  above  all  people  to  know  what  you 
think  of  it. 

Miss  LEVINE 

You  mean  about  that  man,  about  my  child !  I  will 
tell  you  ! 

CLORA 

Confine  ourselves  to  that  man  — 
(A  slightly  ironic  accent?) 
Your  husband  —  Miss  Levine. 

Miss  LEVINE 
He  was  n't  my  husband.  And  don't  call  me  Miss  / 

CLORA 
You  are  known  as  .  .  .  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 
My  friends  of  the  Advance  call  me  Comrade  Levine. 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  127 

CLORA 
Oh!    Comrade? 

Miss  LEVINE 
(Hotly.) 

With  regard  to  those  men,  even  you  can  call  me 
comrade. 

(Enter  Randall) 

CLORA 

(Hesitates,  looking  from  one  to  the  other;  then) 
Never  mind,  Randall. 

RANDALL 
Mr.  Wayne  would  like  to  see  you,  madam. 

CLORA 
In  a  moment  I  shall  want  to  see  him. 

(Exit  Randall) 

CLORA 

(To  Miss  Levine) 
Does  that  man  still  call  you  comrade  ? 


128  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

Miss  LEVINE 

(In  anger,  as  if  hit  by  a  blow.) 
None  of  your  business  ! 

CLORA 

But  it  is  my  business  —  precisely  !  Has  he  never 
said  that  there  is,  in  your  heart,  something  .  .  . 
nauseous  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

Ah !  Mr.  Wayne  —  you  are  thinking  of  leaving 
him! 

CLORA 
(Starts,  but  controls  herself  and  smiles  sardonically} 

Comrade,  I  am.  You  offer  me  the  right  hand  of 
fellowship  ? 

(She  clasps  her  hands  behind  her  back,  however.} 

Miss  LEVINE 

You  women  —  I  marvels*,  your  frivolity,  your  mad 
ness  !  In  all  the  long  history  of  the  world,  your 
men  were  the  first  to  build  an  enduring  democracy. 
Out  of  the  wilderness  they  have  created  wealth  by 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  129 

millions  of  millions.  Out  of  primitive  settlers  and 
ignorant  immigrants,  they  have  made  the  most 
widely  educated  nation  in  the  world,  and  the  hap 
piest.  In  science,  literature,  and  art  they  are  taking 
their  place  among  the  foremost. 

CLORA 
(Ironically^) 
I  gather  that  you  admire  American  men  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

Socially  they  are  still,  so  to  speak,  in  their  shirt 
sleeves  .  .  . 

CLORA 
That,  at  least,  is  true. 

Miss  LEVINE 

The  labors  of  Hercules  were  not  performed  in  a 
dress  suit. 

CLORA 

The  costume  of  the  Demigod,  if  I  can  believe  the 
ancient  Sculptors,  was  very  negligee.  He  must  have 
been  a  trial  to  his  wife. 


HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

Miss  LEVINE 

At  least  she  knew  him  for  a  Demigod!  You  hold 
your  man  by  no  power  of  high  passion  — only  by 
his  own  mistaken  fidelity. 

CLORA 
Mistaken  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 
For  what  are  you  ?  You  are  a  vampire ! 

CLORA 

(  With  mock  resignation^) 
I  am  a  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair. 

Miss  LEVINE 
Worse ! 

CLORA 
Oh! 

(Ironically.") 
I  beg  pardon  if  I  have  presumed. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  131 

Miss  LEVINE 

It  was  a  fool  who  made  his  prayer  to  that  vam 
pire.  Your  man  is  a  man  of  genius.  The  mark 
he  should  make  with  his  life  would  endure  for 
ages  —  forever !  His  children  and  his  children's 
children  should  replenish  the  earth  with  virtue  and 
power.  Yet  he  has  given  himself  to  you ;  and, 
secure  in  his  misplaced  fidelity,  you  are  draining 
his  last  drop  of  blood. 

CLORA 

You  are  frightfully  melodramatic.  Yet  you  set  me 
thinking ! 

Miss  LEVINE 
Now  you  turn  to  another. 

CLORA 
As  you  did  —  which  is  why  I  am  so  interested. 

Miss  LEVINE 

Not  as  I  did !  The  moment  I  ceased  to  love  that 
man,  I  left  him,  forever.  Paugh !  To  those  who 
love  truly  there  is  only  one  adultery  —  to  turn  from 


i32  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

the  free  kiss  of  a  lover  to  the  enforced  embrace  of 
a  husband ! 

CLORA 

Miss  Levine ! 

(Controlling  herself.} 

I  find  myself  always  crying  "  Miss  Levine  ! "  when 
I  am  most  deeply  interested.  But  you  do  think  so 
clearly  !  Tell  me  —  if  I  leave  the  man  who  has 
been  so  true  to  me,  won't  there  be  in  my  heart,  as 
you  say,  something  nauseous  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

Every  soul  is  its  own  —  its  only  master ;  follow  it 
wholly,  and  you  will  be  wholly  free. 

CLORA 
Even  if  I  have  done  wrong  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

Every  great  right  is  some  one's  little  wrong.  It 
has  been  said :  Strong  men  digest  their  sins. 

CLORA 

An  attractive  idea.  It  explains  why  they  tend  to 
grow  fat. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  133 

(Earnestly?) 

Are  you  sure  I  should  n't  endanger  my  figure  ? 

And  they  —  do  they  also  digest  our  sins  ? 

Miss  LEVINE 

For  them  as  for  us,  the  only  truth  is  freedom.  When 
he  is  giving  his  whole  heart  to  the  work  he  was 
born  for,  he  will  bless  you  from  the  depths  of  his 

soul. 

CLORA 

I  believe  you  are  right.  And  I  have  news.  You 
may  say  Miss  Schuyler  has  broken  her  engage 
ment  with  Lord  Iffley. 

Miss  LEVINE 
This  is  due  to  Mr.  Wayne's  intervention? 

CLORA 
(Smiling?} 
And  somewhat  also  to  mine ! 

Miss  LEVINE 
(Ironically.} 
I  will  say  so ! 


134  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

(Seriously.) 

Why,  then, 

(  Taking  the  circular  from  her  muff) 

that  gives  the  lie  to  all  this  —  as  far  as  he  is  con 
cerned. 

( They  shake  hands ;  and  Miss  Levine  goes  out) 

CLORA 

(Pauses ',  suddenly  serious  ;  then  calls  down  the  hall) 
Tony! 

WAYNE 
( Without) 
All  right ! 
(Enter  Wayne) 
Miss  Levine  has  been  giving  you  a  wigging  ? 

CLORA 

Simple  hints  for  daily  needs.  Now  I  know  why  the 
truth  is  called  naked  !  I  wonder  if  you  agree  with 
her? 

WAYNE 
My  managers  have  been  giving  me  a  wigging. 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  135 

Clora,  dear,  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  I  trust 
you.  .  .  . 

CLORA 
True ;  you  have  n't  bothered  your  head  about  me. 

WAYNE 
Yet  I  insist  you  shall  not  see  Iffley  again. 

CLORA 
He  is  coming  this  afternoon. 

WAYNE 
You  must  tell  Randall  to  send  him  away. 

CLORA 
I  will  not! 

WAYNE 
(Gently) 

Always  I  have  given  you  your  way.    See  what 
you  have  done ! 

CLORA 
(Interested.} 

What  have  I  done? 


136  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

WAYNE 
(Gently  reproachful^ 

You   have    made    me    a    public   laughing-stock, 
ruined  my  career,  perhaps. 

CLORA 

You  do  agree  !  I  have  thwarted  the  labors  of  Her 
cules,  the  Demigod. 

WAYNE 
(Patiently.) 

Let 's  stick  to  the  simple  truth  —  it 's  bad  enough. 

CLORA 

I  am  a  vampire  —  sucking  the  last  drop  of  your 
blood. 

WAYNE 
(  With  a  sorry  laugh.) 

What 's  this,  Clora !  You  melodramatic? 

CLORA 
A  touch  of  your  own  dear  Bowery. 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  137 

WAYNE 

Be  frank  and  true  with  me.  You  will  see  I  am 
right  about  Iffley, 

CLORA 
( With  sudden  resolution) 

I  will  be  frank  and  true !  I  love  Lord  Iffley ;  he 
loves  me. 

WAYNE 
(After  a  start.) 

Nonsense  !  This  is  another  of  your  exaggerations. 

CLORA 
It  is  true. 

WAYNE 

(Incredulous  ;  placing  his  hands  on  her  shoulders?) 
You! 

CLORA 
(Evading  him) 

Don't  touch  me ! 

WAYNE 

(  With  deeply  wounded  affection) 
You  —  unfaithful ! 


138  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

CLORA 
Yes. 

WAYNE 

(With  dawning  abhorrence?) 
How  long  has  this  been  true  ? 

CLORA 
It  seems  forever. 

WAYNE 

(Relieved?) 

Ah  !  What  you  speak  of  has  a  very  particular  time 
and  place.  This  is  another  of  your  new  touches  of 
melodrama ! 

CLORA 
Last  night,  then. 

WAYNE 
(Trembling  with  sudden  rage,  grasps  her  by  the  neck,} 

You  brazen  harlot !  You  stand  there  coldly  and  tell 
me  this  with  a  sneer ! 

CLORA 

(Quivering  in  his  grasp?) 
Oh!  Oh! 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  139 

WAYNE 

(Releasing  her.) 

No  !  I  am  wrong. 
(Pause.) 

Forgive  me  —  what  I  said  and  what  I  did.  I  was 
not  myself  —  the  victim  of  a  reflex  action. 

CLORA 

(Throwing  on  the  table  her  necklace,  which  his  grasp 
has  broken.} 

I  was  the  victim.  And  what  is  a  reflex  action  ? 

WAYNE 

(Sardonically} 

An  action  one  takes  without  reflection. 

CLORA 
And  now  that  you  have  reflected  ? 

WAYNE 

( With  conviction} 

What  you  say  is  not  true. 


140  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

CLORA 
(Laughing  harshly!) 

Your  reflex  actions  are  not  nice ;  but  they  do 
your  intelligence  more  credit ! 

WAYNE 
(Firmly) 

I  have  reasons. 

CLORA 

You  are  a  lawyer.  You  have  reasons  for  every 
thing  —  and  the  best  reasons  when  you  are  most 
wrong. 

WAYNE 
(Quietly.) 

Do  you  remember  the  months  we  were  engaged  ? 

CLORA 
This  is  unheard  of ! 

WAYNE 

It  was  the  presidential  year. 
( Tenderly) 

Always  you  wore  your  old  mink  coat,  with  a  bunch 
of  my  violets.  We  watched  for  the  returns  together — 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  14  r 

on  the  roof  outside  your  sky  cottage  !  To  this  day, 
when  I  smell  the  mingled  odor  of  fur  and  violets 

—  on  the  avenue,  on  Broadway  at  matinee  time 

—  I  remember  those  days,  up  there  alone  in  the 
sky  together.  And  you,  when  we  catch  the  old  per 
fume  —  tears  come  to  your  eyes. 

CLORA 
It 's  not  true  ! 

WAYNE 

I '  ve  seen  you  —  within  the  year !  The  old  fur  coat, 
and  the  last  bunch  of  violets  —  we  laid  them  away 
together  in  the  trunk  upstairs.  When  you  can  go 

to  the  trunk  room  and  repeat  what  you  have  said 

(He  smiles  with  confidence,  reaching  out  his  hand} 
I  shall  believe  you. 

CLORA 

(  With  violence,  as  if  at  bay.) 
I  refuse  to  take  part  in  absurd  mummery.  Really— ! 

WAYNE 

I  have  heard  you  cry  wolf  before. 
(Turning  to  the  bookcase} 


i42  HUSBAND  [ACT  ii 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  this  is  the  perfect 
image  of  your  life  ? 

CLORA 

Tony,  if  you  weren't  pitiful,  I  should  find  you  pro 
voking  ! 

WAYNE 

Listen.  Here  is  a  shelf  of  the  dear  poets.  The  erotic 
Swinburne,  the  morbid  Verlaine,  the  lurid  Bau 
delaire.  Each  volume  bears  the  initials  of  the  giver, 
on  an  obscure  beloved  page.  They  were  given  you 
the  first  year  we  were  married  —  by  a  soulful 
sophomore  who  called  you  his  Lady  of  Pain.  Be 
cause  of  you  he  flunked  his  exams,  and  was  put 
to  work  by  an  irate  parent.  He  is  now  leading  a 
double  life  —  on  fifteen  dollars  a  week. 

CLORA 
(Relapsing  into  her  wifely  manner?) 

Tony  Wayne,  you  are  mad  as  your  great  grand- 
sire ! 

WAYNE 
( Unmoved?) 

Here  are  the  modern  French  dramatists  —  given 
by  an  aspiring  playwright  who  used  to  prove  that 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  143 

we  have  no  drama  because  American  women  are 
sexless.  He  intimated  a  desire  to  have  you  col 
laborate  with  him  to  elevate  the  stage. 

CLORA 
I  admit,  I  escaped  that  blandishment. 

WAYNE 
On  every  shelf  it 's  the  same. 

(Indicating  various  sections^) 

Evolution  ;  Abnormal  Psychology  ;  The  World's 
Great  Religions  ;  bugs  and  insects  ;  Richard  Wag 
ner.  Is  there  one  volume  which  you  bought  your 
self,  or  which  represents  any  interest  of  your  own? 

CLORA 
Mad  Anthony  Wayne  1   What  has  that  to  do  — 

WAYNE 

You  accuse  me  of  not  sharing  your  intellectual 
interests. 

(Smiling?) 

I  'm  only  proving  you  have  n't  any.  Every  bit  of 
your  reading  has  been  personally  conducted.  You 


I44  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

think  the  thoughts  of  the  last  person  who  has  talked 
to  you.  You  are  the  Cook's  tourist  of  culture  ! 

CLORA 
I  like  your  arrogance  ! 

WAYNE 

Don't  take  it  personally.  Ninety-nine  women  out 
of  a  hundred  are  the  same.  And  the  hundredth 
is  generally  a  man.  I  shall  begin  to  take  notice  of 
their  intellects  when  they  no  longer  wear  gowns 
that  button  up  the  back. 

CLORA 

As  a  husband,  you  certainly  are  a  masterpiece !  I 
tell  you  I  have  been  unfaithful,  and  you  answer 
with  a  dissertation  on  the  female  intellect. 

WAYNE 

The  point  is  that  you  have  not  been  unfaithful. 
Did  you  ever  reflect  that  in  all  these  books  there 
is  not  one  that  refers  to  me  ? 

CLORA 

Momentous  conclusion !  Your  interests  are  all  too 
stupid ! 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  145 

WAYNE 

(Lightly,  but  with  deep  seriousness?) 

They  are  —  in  comparison  with  me,  and  our  life 
together.  Each  and  every  best-young-man  you 
have  compared  to  me,  to  my  disadvantage  — 
raised  the  cry  of  wolf,  as  you  raise  it  now.  One  by 
one  they  have  gone,  and  I  still  guard  my  sheep. 

CLORA 
(Ironic ;  bridling?) 

Your  sheep ! 

WAYNE 

Really,  Clora,  when  you  see  all  this,  does  n't  it 
make  you  just  a  little  sheepish?  Will  you  never 
learn  ?  To  any  woman,  all  literature,  all  art  —  the 
whole  world  of  ideas  and  of  ideals  —  is  flat  and 
unprofitable,  compared  to  real  life  with  the  man 
she  loves. 

CLORA 

With  each  of  your  lawyer-like  reasons,  you  are 
only  pleading  my  cause !  How  have  I  had  time  for 
(A  gesture) 

all  this  ?  Because  I  have  had  no  real  life  with  you  ! 
(Laughing  bitterly?) 


146  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

Since  I  must  convince  you  by  argument — Great 
Heaven !  —  do  you  find  any  book  that  relates  to 
Lord  Iffley?  Is  it  ideas  I  have  got  from  him  ? 

WAYNE 

(Lowering  at  first,  then  brightening) 
Yes! 
(Going  to  the  bottom  shelf.} 

I  was  looking  up  a  quotation  from  Wagner ;  hid 
den  behind  here  I  found  Burke's  Peerage. 

(Producing  it.) 

The  peerage  is  scarcely  an  intellectual  interest.  But 
it  is  weighty.  This  has  been  a  great  comfort. 

CLORA 

(A  toitck  of  gentleness) 

It  has  pleased  heaven,  Tony,  to  dull  the  shock  to 
you  by  your  own  stark,  raving  madness.  Yet  you 
must  face  the  truth.  I  have  been  untrue  to  you  as 
never  before. 

WAYNE 
(Lowers  upon  her) 

Speak  plainly  !  You  have  betrayed  me ! 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  147 

CLORA 

(After  a  paused] 
Not  yet,  but  — 

WAYNE 

But  what ! 

CLORA 
You  will  regard  me  as  no  longer  your  wife. 

WAYNE 
(His  face  contracting  to  intense  rage) 

Clora ! 

CLORA 

(Shrinking  from  kirn.) 
Tony  !  No  violence  ! 

WAYNE 

(His  rage  turning  slowly  to  abhorrence^) 
There  shall  be  none. 
(Paused) 

(Out  of  deep-wounded  affection.} 
Oh,  Clora,  what  has  come  over  you ! 


148  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

CLORA 

Love  — the  right  to  freedom.  You  have  made  me 
a  prisoner — the  convict  of  marriage.  Love,  real 
love,  gives  me  strength  to  break  the  bars. 

WAYNE 

No,  by  heaven,  not  real !  For  me  your  love  was 
real. 

CLORA 
It  might  have  been  —  until  you  became  married. 

WAYNE 
(Bitterly) 

The  truth  is,  we  've  never  been  married. 

CLORA 
(Icily.) 

You  mean  I  have  no  children! 

WAYNE 

( Wearily.) 

Among  many  things  —  yes. 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  149 

CLORA 
(Hotly.) 

You  have  never  been  able  to  provide  for  them ! 

WAYNE 

Once  that  may  have  been  true.  Now  it  is  a  lie ! 
Real  love  ?  In  the  whole  life  you  are  leading,  not 
one  moment  is  real !  The  thing  that  is  wrecking 
our  love  is  nothing  but  glamour.  How  can  I  make 
you  see  it?  Every  year  you  spend  more  than  it 
once  cost  us  both  to  live  —  only  on  gowns  and 
jewels. 

CLORA 

(Bitterly,  sardonically.) 

I  see  your  ideal  of  the  American  matron  —  yours 
and  the  great  Theodore's  !  Dowdy  Clorinda  point 
ing  with  pride  to  a  horde  of  ragamuffins  and  say 
ing,  "  These  are  my  diamond  necklaces  ! " 

WAYNE 

Even  that  is  better  than  —  than  the  thing  you  have 
come  to ! 

CLORA 

You  want  to  keep  the  name  of  Mad  Anthony 
among  the  sons  of  the  Revolution. 


150  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

WAYNE 

Our  line  is  far  older,  yours  and  mine.  You  've  read 
Darwin. 

(Glancing  toward  the  bookcase?) 

Did  the  Man  from  Cook's  tell  you  what  he  says  of 
real  love  —  free  love  ?  Up  from  the  first  little  crea 
ture  that  crawled  out  of  the  ooze  and  the  brine  of 
the  sea,  all  our  ancestors  have  loved  really  and 
freely.  Theirs  is  the  true  nobility.  Out  of  infinite 
joy  —  yes,  and  infinite  pain  —  they  have  created 
the  life  of  mankind.  To  do  that  was  the  only 
reality,  the  only  freedom.  Yet  you,  in  your  vanity, 
end  it  all  —  the  increasing  triumph  of  the  ages  !  I 
am  proud  of  my  family,  but  the  children  of  God 
I  love. 

(With  intense  scorn.) 

And  to  what  I  love  I  give  my  whole  heart,  my 
whole  life  —  if  need  be  my  happiness. 

CLORA 

Ah  !  Your  happiness  !  Ha !  Magnificent !  The  life, 
the  happiness,  which  you  propose  to  sacrifice  are 
mine  ! 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  151 

WAYNE 

No !  I  propose  to  make  your  happiness  !  In  my 
work,  you  say,  I  am  having  the  time  of  my  life. 
You  have  been  unhappy  because  you  have  shirked 
your  work.  Live  your  whole  life  bravely,  in  every 
function.  Then,  in  the  face  of  all  pain,  all  hard 
ship,  defeat  even,  you  can't  be  unhappy  ! 

CLORA 

(Laughing  shrilly^ 

You  are  a  work  of  art,  husband,  admirable  in  your 

perfection. 

( With  intense  bitterness^) 

Of  all   arguments  to  reclaim  the  wife  who  has 

wronged  you  —  children ! 

WAYNE 

(Lowering  upon  her.} 

Forget  the  wrong  against  me.  I'll  take  care  of 
that  1  Your  fatal  error  is  against  yourself.  What 
you  are  is  no  more  shameful  than  what  you  have 
been  —  self-centred,  sterile.  Always  I  have  felt  it 
in  our  life,  a  deep,  corroding  immorality.  If  I  have 


152  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

loved  you  less  than  I  might,  that,  and  only  that,  is 
the  reason ! 

CLORA 

At  last !  Now  you  have  pleaded  my  whole  cause 
for  me !  You  are  the  great  American  man,  creat 
ing  the  great  American  nation.  I  am  the  Vampire, 
destroying  you  in  every  function.  Our  whole  life 
is  immoral.  It  is !  It  is !  Tony,  to  this  moment,  I 
have  had  one  misgiving.  I  shrank  from  any  sin 
against  you,  from  making  another  share  that  sin. 
You  yourself  have  shown  me  that  the  only  sin 
would  be  to  remain  what  is  called  true  to  you.  If 
I  turned  from  the  free  kiss  of  love  to  the  embrace 
of  a  husband,  that  would  be  adultery ! 

(A  pause.    Wayne  is  speechless) 

(Enter  Randall) 

RANDALL 

( With  a  furtive  glance  at  Wayne.) 
Lord  Iffley,  madam. 

WAYNE 

(Quickly.) 

Bring  him  up ! 


ACT  n]  HUSBAND  153 

(Randall  hesitates,  looking  toward  Clora.) 

CLORA 
No,  Randall,  no! 

WAYNE 
Bring  him  up.    Bring  him  up,  I  tell  you ! 

(Exit  Randall,  with  a  deprecatory  look  at  Clora.) 

CLORA 
(Alarmed.) 

What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

WAYNE 
I  don't  know.  But  by  God,  I  '11  do  it  I 

(Enter  Lord  Iffley.    Seeing  Wayne,  he  starts) 

WAYNE 

(Calmly  in  manner,  but  with  intense  latent  passion) 
Lord  Iffley,  if  there  ever  was  a  man  and  a  gentle 
man,  you  are.  It  is  a  dirty  trick  you  are  playing, 
and  a  coward's  trick.  In  your  heart  you  know  it. 
(Pause) 
Do  you  still  ask  her  to  go  with  you  ? 


154  HUSBAND  [ACT  n 

IFFLEY 
(Resolutely?) 

I  do. 

WAYNE 

(Steadying  himself  on  the  back  of  a  chair.) 
And  you? 

CLORA 
(Facing1  Wayne}) 

I  shall  go  with  him. 

WAYNE 

(An  outburst?) 

Then  get  away  from  me,  both  of  you !  Out  of  my 
house  !  This  hour  the  whole  world  shall  see  you, 
smirched  with  dirt !  And  you  shall  see  the  anger 
of  the  world  —  the  blight  of  free  love  !  Out  of 
my  house,  I  say ! 

CLORA 

(Half  shrinks  from  him,  then  turns  back?) 

But,  Tony ! 

(A  quick  recrudescence  of  her  wifely  manner?) 

Your  campaign  !  It  will  ruin  you  now !  Wait !  I 
have  managed  all  that ! 


ACT  ii]  HUSBAND  155 

WAYNE 
(Furiously.') 

I  Ve  had  the  last  of  your  managements !  Out  of 
my  house ! 

(Proudly  he  rises  to  his  full  height,  lifting  the  chair 
and  holding  it  lightly  suspended?) 

Out,  I  say  !  It  is  best  for  you  ! 

(Iffley  steps  in  front  of  Clora ;  meets  Wayne  s  glare 
with  dignity  ;  then  follows  Clora  out?) 

(  Wayne  stands  rigid  a  moment,  then  drops  the  chair  and 
sinks  into  another,  his  features  tense  and  set.) 

(In  a  moment  Sally  enters.  Seeing  Wayne,  she  comes 
to  him  with  a  wondering  look.  She  picks  up  Clord  s 
necklace  from  the  table?) 

SALLY 
Clora  has  gone  with  Lord  Iffley ! 

(She  throws  herself  on  the  floor,  her  head  on  Wayne's 
knees?) 

(  Wayne  bursts  into  convulsive  tears?) 
CURTAIN 


ACT   III 


ACT   III 

SCENE  :  —  The  roof  of  an  apartment  house,  near  Madi 
son  Square.  The  part  shown  is  a  corner,  surrounded 
by  a  balustrade,  waist-high.  To  the  right,  abutting 
the  proscenium  arch,  is  a  low  hutch  or  cottage  of  cor 
rugated  iron.  To  the  left,  also  abutting  the  prosce 
nium  arch,  is  an  electric  hoarding — a  coarse  wire 
net,  supporting  huge  letters,  the  fronts  of  which  are 
brilliantly  illuminated.  The  back  of  the  hoarding  is 
to  the  stage,  and  only  a  faint  glow  indicates  the 
glaring  light  at  the  front. 

A  door  of  the  cottage  gives  the  only  entrance  to  the  stage, 
thoiigh  other  parts  of  the  roof  may  be  reached  around 
the  corner.  The  cottage  window  is  neatly  curtained, 
and  is  fronted  by  a  window-box  of  evergreens.  The 
back  of  the  hoarding  is  partly  screened  by  a  row  of 
tall  bay  trees.  In  the  centre  of  the  scene  is  a  rug, 
with  easy  chairs  and  a  table. 

It  is  night,  and  the  neighboring  buildings ,  far  below  the 
level  of  the  roof,  are  seen  in  deep  sJiadow,  through 
the  openings  of  the  balustrade.  In  the  middle  dis 
tance  is  the  tower  of  Madison  Square  Garden,  the 
belfry  outlined  in  lights.  Beyond  is  the  East  River, 
spanned  by  arches  of  minute  lights,  which  indicate 
the  Brooklyn  and  the  Williamsburg  bridges. 


1 60  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

Enter  Sally,  carrying  a  tray  with  a  coffee  machine,  four 

small  cups,  and  a  box  of  cigarettes.  Mrs.  Jones  and 
Clora  follozv.  Clora  s  dress,  though  neatly  cut  and 
tasteful,  is  rather  faded,  and  of  a  style  long  out 
moded :  it  contrasts  markedly  with  the  dresses  of 
her  mother  and  sister,  which  are  fresh  and  modish. 
Clora  wears  an  old  mink  coat,  Sally  sables. 

SALLY 

(Lights  the  alcohol  lamp  and  screens  it  from  the  air. 
TJien  she  speaks  to  an  imaginary  butler,  in  the  tones 
of  burlesque,  but  with  a  touch  of  acerbity?) 

That  will  do,  Randall.    We  will  serve  the  coffee 
ourselves. 

(She  throws  back  her  shoulders  slightly,  drops  her 
middle  fingers  to  the  seams  of  imaginary  trousers,  and 
walks  formally  toward  the  door.  Then  she  comes 
back  to  the  table?] 

Much  more  truly  smart,  don't  you  think,  to  be  free 
of  the  eternal  presence  of  servants  ? 

CLORA 
(  With  a  touch  of  exasperation?} 

If  that  is  a  joke,  Sally,  it  has  gone  far  enough. 
You  have  given  us  excellent  imitations  of  cook, 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  161 

maid,  and  butler ;  but  the  dinner  was  as  bad  as 
ever  we  had  here  in  the  old  days. 

MRS.  JONES 

I  like  that !  Before  you  married,  you  used  to  call 
this  high  life.  It 's  the  most  luxurious  apartment 
in  New  York.  Who  else  has  a  garden  terrace  in 
the  heart  of  the  shopping  district  ? 

SALLY 
(  With  a  searching  glance  at  Clora.} 

If  you  don't  prefer  high  life,  why  have  you  come 
back  to  it? 

CLORA 
(Coldly.} 
I  have  told  you. 

MRS.  JONES 
(  With  earnest  irony.} 

You  have  left  the  house  to  Tony  for  his  head 
quarters  —  to  save  campaign  expenses !  A  very 
good  story  for  the  papers,  but  — 


162  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

SALLY 

It  has  made  you  out  a  model  wife  —  coupled  with 
that  other  story  of  how  you  helped  Tony  to  save 
an  American  heiress  from  a  ghoulish,  fortune-hunt 
ing  Briton.  And  you  've  gone  back  to  wearing 
your  old  trousseau  things.  Why  not  publish  that 
also  as  a  proof  of  your  devotion  to  Tony  ? 

CLORA 
(Coldly.) 

Why  not  ? 

SALLY 

Why,  when  you  left,  was  he  all  broken  up  ?  Why 
does  he  never  come  here,  and  why  does  Lord 
Iffley  come  —  for  coffee  and  cigarettes  ?  Why  are 
you  always  angry  when  I  speak  of  it  ? 

MRS.  JONES 
(Severely.} 

My  child,  it 's  all  a  pretense  —  an  obvious  pretense. 

CLORA 

(Reflecting  a  moment?) 
Yes.    It  is. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  163 

MRS.  JONES 
A  shameful  pretense  i 

CLORA 
Grandmamma ! 

MRS.  JONES 
Then  why  have  you  not  been  frank  with  us? 

CLORA 

I  was  afraid  the  newspapers  would  ask  questions, 
and  I  wanted  to  take  the  necessary  lies  on  my  own 
shoulders.  When  I  told  Tony  about  —  about  Lord 
Iffley,  he  went  into  a  rage,  and  turned  me  out  of 
the  house. 

SALLY 
Ah!  Naturally. 

CLORA 

He  was  quite  natural.  He  said  the  whole  world 
should  see  me,  smirched  with  dirt. 

MRS.  JONES 
That,  my  child,  is  what  it  will  amount  to,  if  .  .  ( . 


164  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

CLORA 

(Hotly.) 

There  is  no  if !  That  is  what  we  expected  —  what 
we  still  expect.  Yet  the  scandal  would  have  hurt 
Tony's  campaign.  He  did  his  best  to  ruin  his  last 
chance.  But  7  have  managed  !  Now  there  is  no 
more  need  of  pretense.  Every  vote  is  cast.  In  an 
hour  we  shall  know  the  result. 

SALLY 
(Pouring  the  coffee,  which  is  boiling?) 

And  you,  Clora  ? 

CLORA 

(Assuming  a  matter-of  fact  tone?) 

I  have  engaged  my  berth  to  Sioux  Falls.  I  shall 
marry  Edmund  and  go  to  England. 

SALLY 
I  knew  it ! 

MRS.  JONES 
Clora! 

(More  and  more  deeply  shocked?) 

I  can't  believed  of  you !  You,  Clora — you  !  Ouff! 
It  gives  me  a  chill. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  165 

(Rising  determinedly} 

I  '11  see  you  alone  to-night.   We  '11  talk  of  this  1 

CLORA 
(Quickly.} 

Read  me  the  moral  law  ?  I  simply  won't  have  it  I 

MRS.  JONES 
(Sternly} 

You  have  used  me,  used  your  innocent  sister,  to 
protect  you  against  scandal.  You  have  made  us 
accomplices  in  your  shame !  I  will  make  you 
acknowledge  the  insult  to  both  of  us,  and  the  sin 
in  your  own  heart ! 

(Exit.) 

CLORA 

(Controlling  herself,  speaks  kindly  to  Sally} 
Edmund  wants  you  to  live  with  us  —  as  you  did 
with  Tony. 

SALLY 

Will  it  be  just  like  that? 
(She  offers  Clora  the  cigarettes} 
They  are  de  rigueur  —  in  certain  English  sets. 


166  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

CLORA 

(Inwardly  wincing?) 
You  mean  that  decent  people  there  will  cut  us. 

SALLY 

Lord  Iffley  is  very  kind.    But  with  his  fortune 
(A  slightly  ironic  emphasis) 

won't  he  have  his  hands  full,  providing  for  your 
simple  tastes  ?  Thank  you,  I  will  stay  with  Maysie. 

CLORA 
( Tenderly?) 

Little  sister,  I  want  you  to  understand  —  I  trust 
you  to  understand !  The  world  is  conventional  in 
its  judgments,  so  narrow  and  so  small !  But  you 
are  not  so.  Think,  and  you  will  see  that  what  we 
are  doing,  Edmund  and  I,  is  the  big  thing,  the 
just  thing  —  the  only  right  thing! 

SALLY 
/  think.    But  I  don't  see  it. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  167 

CLORA 

Since  I  don't  love  Tony,  to  live  with  him  can  be 
only  sinful.  He  himself  saw  that !  And  since  I  do 
love  Edmund,  oh,  so  deeply,  as  he  loves  me,  not 
to  go  with  him,  whatever  it  costs  us  in  happiness 
—  don't  you  see  ?  —  it  would  be  cowardice ! 

SALLY 

I  am  still  thinking.  You  took  every  thing  from  Tony. 
You  took  his  love  —  and  he  loves  you  very  deeply. 
You  took  his  money,  for  yourself  and  for  me.  To 
provide  for  us,  he  gave  up  all  leisure  and  enjoy- 
ment  —  became  tired  and  dull.  You  gave  him 
nothing  —  nothing  but  contempt  for  his  dullness. 
Was  that  " right"? 

CLORA 

No.    And  so  I  shan't  do  so  any  more. 
(Gently  pleading?) 
You  will  come  —  let  us  do  what  we  can  for  you  ? 

SALLY 
Like  the  world,  I'm  so  narrow  and  small. 


HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

CLORA 

Perhaps  things  won't  turn  out  so  badly  in  Eng 
land.  If  we  are  able  — to  bring  you  out  properly 

SALLY 

I  have  broken  Tony's  bread  and  eaten  his  salt.   / 
can't  leave  him  in  the  lurch.  I  shall  play  the  game. 

CLORA 

(Looking  about  with  unconscious  disdain) 
You  will  stey  here? 

SALLY 
(Acidly) 

Our  neighbors  are  housemaids.  To  receive  callers 
I  have  the  entrance  hall  and  the  assistance  of  bell 
hops.  Respectability  comes  high;  but  we  must 
have  it.  I  '11  stick  to  Alfonso  and  love  in  a  sky 
cottage.  We  're  hopelessly  conventional,  Alfonso 
and  I. 

CLORA 

(Patting  her  head  patiently) 
Don't  be  hard  on  me,  Sis  . 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  169 

(Sally  shrugs  her  shoulders  ;  then  sits  motionless  and 
obdurate.  Clora  turns  from  her,  offended,  and  defi 
antly  lights  a  cigarette.  She  holds  it  awkwardly 
between  her  thumb  and  first  finger.  It  goes  out.  She 
throws  it  down.) 

Pah! 

(She  clears  the  air  about  her  with  her  handkerchief  and 
sips  her  coffee.) 

SALLY 
If  you  will  hold  it  like  a  stick  of  candy ! 

(She  takes  the  cigarette,  presses  out  the  flatness  be 
tween  thumb  and  finger,  taps  the  end  against  her 
thumb-nail,  and  then,  lighting  it,  leans  back  and 
puts  her  slippered  toes  against  the  table-top?) 

The  latest  attitude  from  Sioux  Falls. 
(Puffs.) 

(A  horn  toots  off  stage.  Enter  Miss  Schuyler  and 
Philip  Roberts  in  motoring  furs.  He  has  a  tin  horn 
and  she  a  feather  tickler.  The  clothes  of  both  are 
sifted  full  of  variegated  tissue-paper  confetti?) 

(Sally  drops  her  toes  from  the  table,  and  hides  her  cigar 
ette^ 


170  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

(Comes  impulsively  to  Clora,  suffusing  happiness.) 
Congratulate  us,  dearest.  We  're  engaged  ! 

CLORA 
Miss  Schuyler !  Muriel !   When  did  this  happen  ? 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
(To  Philip.) 

When  did  it  happen  ? 

PHILIP 
(To  Clora.) 

How  did  you  come  to  think  of  such  a  question ! 

(To  Muriel.) 

In  the  conservatory,  eh  ? 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

We  may  as  well  call  it  then.  Mother  had  been 
horrid  to  me  —  said  I  'd  made  her  a  laughing-stock 
and  myself  a  scandal.  Philip  came  and  was  so 
true  and  kind  that  I  found  myself  crying.  Then  — 

(A  laugh  of  happy  embarrassment^) 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  171 

People  don't  have  to  say  such  an  awful  lot,  to  be 
engaged. 

PHILIP 

Fact  is,  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  got  myself  horribly 
compromised. 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

(Thrusting  her  tickler  in  his  face.) 

Philip ! 

SALLY 

(Having  joined  them.) 

I  am  so  glad  !  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  ! 

(Impulsively  she  kisses  Miss  Schuyler) 

Miss  SCHUYLER 
(Taking-  Philip  close  by  the  arm) 

We  've  come  to  tell  you  first  of  all.  It  was  you, 
dear,  who  made  the  match ! 

CLORA 
//  What  does  your  mother  say  ! 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

Mother  is  at  Lakewood.  Neurasthenia  —  otherwise 
known  as  exhaustion  of  the  social  nerve. 


172  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

PHILIP 

There  Js  another  horrible  jolt  coming  to  mother. 
We  told  Mr.  Schuyler.  He  promised  to  administer 
the  jolt. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

And  when  father  does  say  something,  it  goes 
through. 

(Philip  turns  his  back  and  gives  a  long  toot  on  his 
horn.} 

Dearest,  when  I  came  to  you  that  day  I  was  such 
a  silly !  I  knew  nothing  of  life  —  of  its  evil  or  of 
its  good.  Of  my  own  heart  —  of  what  love  should 
be  —  I  knew  nothing  at  all  whatever  1  You,  with 
your  few,  dear,  sisterly  words,  told  me  everything. 
Oh,  yes  !  I  know  it  all  now !  I  know  that  life  is 
black,  black,  black.  But  I  also  know  that  it  may 
be  sweet  and  pure  —  as  it  is  for  you !  Clorinda, 
dearest  —  may  I  call  you  so  ?  —  if  you  knew  what 
it  has  meant  to  me,  will  always  mean,  to  know 
you  —  your  sweetness  and  goodness ! 

CLORA 
( Without  conviction?) 

Thank  you,  Miss  Schuyler. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  173 

(Forcing  the  note  of  conviction^) 
Thank  you,  Muriel. 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

And  that  brave  big  husband  of  yours !  Realizing 
what  you  have  been  to  me,  I  know  something 
of  what  you  are  to  him.  You  have  followed  the 
papers  ? 

CLORA 
No.  That  is,  I  Ve  only  glanced  at  them. 

PHILIP 
It 's  the  reporters,  dear,  who  come  to  her  for  news. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

How  stupid  of  me!  And  what  he  is  doing  —  you 
hear  it  all,  at  once,  from  him.  Will  he  win  ?  We  have 
gone  from  bulletin  to  bulletin  —  we  two  together 
in  the  limousine. 

CLORA 
Then  you  can  best  tell  me. 


i74  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

PHILIP 

Even  his  enemies  admit  that  he 's  made  the  closest 
kind  of  a  fight.  The  shouting  in  the  street  is  all 
for  Tony.  It  depends  on  the  effect  of  these  rotten 
circulars.  If  people  believe  Tony  's  been  playing 
double  with  rich  and  poor,  he  's  done  for.  If  they 
believe  the  truth,  he  '11  win.  And  I  hope  they  '11 
take  his  word  before  that  of  anonymous  black 
guards. 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

Which  are  they  believing  ?  Of  course  he  's  had  you 
up  on  the  telephone. 

CLORA 
No  —  not  yet. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

He  has  n't  time  ?  Then  it  must  be  close !  It  has  all 
been  so  exciting!  And  his  speeches  —  the  way  he 
talks  about  our  country,  our  people  !  I  had  to  take 
two  handkerchiefs  — just  like  a  perfectly  splendid 
matinee.  But  of  course  you  've  heard  him ! 

CLORA 
Not  in  this  campaign. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  175 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

He  has  pathos,  passion  — even  the  note  of  tragedy. 
That 's  what  the  paper  says ! 

CLORA 
Really,  I  had  n't  heard. 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

I  suppose  he  's  too  modest  to  say  it  himself. 
(To  Philip.} 

Promise  me,  dear,  you  '11  never  be  as  modest  as 
that! 

(To  Clora.) 

But  he  does  tell  you  how  much  he  owes  to  you  ? 

CLORA 
No  —  in  the  present  case. 

SALLY 
( With  sub-acid  satire.} 

Yet  in  the  present  case,  Clora,  I  think  you  may 
admit,  without  immodesty,  that  you  have  aroused 
his  passion  and  the  note  of  tragedy. 


176  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

(Pauses  and  looks  from  Sally  to  Clora.} 
Is  there  anything  wrong  ? 

CLORA 
Wrong  ? 

Miss  SCHUYLER 

You  don't  seem  excited  at  all.  And,  when  I  told 
my  news,  your  sister  kissed  me. 

CLORA 
Dear  child,  my  whole  heart  goes  out  to  you. 

(She  kisses  her.) 

It  touches  me  —  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  —  to 
think  that  /  have  had  any  part  in  bringing  you 
such  happiness. 

(She  dashes  a  tear  from  her  eye,  smiling.} 

You  see,  I  am  not  at  all  as  calm  as  you  think. 

(Enter  Mrs.  Denton.) 

MRS.  DENTON 
I  've  come  to  interview  you,  Clora. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  177 

CLORA 

From  the  other  side,  Philip,  you  can  see  the  tower 
of  the  Times.  Look  for  the  searchlight.  If  Tony 
is  elected,  it  will  flash  north :  if  not,  south. 

(To  Sally.} 

Do  get  them  away.    Edmund  will  be  here  .  .  . 

(Philip,  Miss  Schuyler  and  Sally  pass  round  the  corner 
of  the  cottage.} 

MRS.  DENTON 

Listen  —  and  forgive  me !  My  editor  thinks  you 
are  going  to  get  a  divorce  and  marry  Lord  Iffley. 

CLORA 

(Simply?) 

He  is  mistaken. 

MRS.  DENTON 

May  I  advise  you?  The  time  is  past  when  the 
truth  can  hurt  Tony. 

CLORA 
But  if  it  is  n't  the  truth  ? 


HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

MRS.  DENTON 
(Surveying  her  costume?) 
Why  have  you  on  that  old  gown? 

CLORA 
Why  not  ? 

MRS.  DENTON 
It 's  years  out  of  fashion  —  part  of  your  trousseau. 

CLORA 
(Coldly.) 

And  what  then  ? 

MRS.  DENTON 

You  are  the  squarest  woman  I  ever  knew,  Having 
left  Tony,  you  are  too  honest  —  and  too  proud  — 
to  keep  wearing  the  things  he  paid  for. 

CLORA 
Sherlock  Holmes ! 

(Enter  Mrs.  Jones  carrying  a  small  florist's  box.  She 
greets  Mrs.  Denton  and  places  the  box  on  the  table 
beside  Clora.} 

Alice  is  interviewing  me,  grandmem. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  179 

MRS.  JONES 
(Significantly?) 
I  will  interview  you  later. 
(Exit.) 

MRS.  DENTON 
(Taking  Clora  by  the  lapel  of  her  coat?) 

The  old  mink,  too !  Sally  is  wearing  the  sables 
Tony  gave  her.  Where  are  yours  ? 

(Clora  opens  the  florisfs  box?) 

And  violets ! 

(On  a  s^idden  thought?) 

If  what  you  say  is  true,  Clora  dear,  they  will  be 
from  Tony.  How  often  I  Ve  seen  you  in  this  coat, 
with  just  such  a  bunch  of  his  violets  !  If  /am  right, 
they  will  be  from  Lord  Iffley. 

CLORA 
(Forcing  a  smile?) 

Sherlock  Holmes  would  be  green  with  envy !  Only 
this  is  real  life. 

MRS.  DENTON 
Ah,  Clora !  Listen !  This  story  —  if  it  comes  out 


1 8o  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

late  to-night,  the  election  news  will  crowd  it  down 
to  half  a  column.  After  that  —  if  you  let  me  have 
it  exclusively  now  —  the  other  papers,  out  of  jeal 
ousy,  will  give  it  less  prominence. 

CLORA 
(After  a  pause?) 

It 's  all  true. 

MRS.  DENTON 

Tony  is  to  get  the  divorce  ? 

CLORA 

As  yet  he  has  no  grounds.    I  shall  get  it  on  the 
ground  that  he  has  forbidden  me  his  home  —  re 
fused  support. 
(She  buttons  tight  her  fur  coat.) 

At  Sioux  Falls,  do  you  suppose  they  all  blossom 
out  in  their  faded  trousseaux  ?  It  will  be  a  gay  life ! 

(She  takes  the  violets  out  of  the  box!) 

MRS.  DENTON 

Furs  and  violets.  How  often  I  've  seen  you  like 
this  with  Tony!  Oh,  Clora!  The  very  perfume 
should  recall  you. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  181 

CLORA 
(Sniffs.) 

The  fur — camphor.  The  moth-balls  of  matrimony! 
The  violets  —  are  not  Tony's  violets. 

(She  puts  them  back  in  the  box,  however?) 

(Miss  Schuyler,  Sally ,  and  Philip  reenter.    They  are  in 
high  spirits.} 

MlSS    SCHUYLER 

It 's  as  dark  there  as  here. 

(Indicating  the  Garden  tower?) 

What  can  be  happening !  We  're  off  to  the 
bulletins.  It 's  such  fun !  They  toot  into  the  car 
in  our  ears,  tickle  our  noses !  I  never  dreamed 
I  could  be  so  near  so  many  jolly  people !  I  want 
to  tell  them  all,  brag  to  them  —  I  know  their 
Tony! 

(She  reaches  into  the  pockets  of  Philip'1  s  overcoat  with 
both  hands  and  showers  confetti  over  Clora.) 

To  think  I  ever  intended  to  leave  my  country  for 
—  forever ! 

(Miss  Schuyler  and  Philip  go  out.  Sally  follows?) 


1 82  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

MRS.  DENTON 
Clora,  Clora !  What  you  are  leaving  forever  !  .  .  . 

CLORA 
Tony  said  himself  I  was  ruining-  his  career. 

MRS.  DENTON 

You  were.  Does  it  follow  that  you  must  ruin  his 
life!  Tony  is  suffering  —  alone.  And  Miss  Levine  ! 
He  may  lose  to-night;  but  he  has  a  future  —  a 
great  work  in  the  world.  And  he  should  do  it 
greatly !  But  a  woman  like  that  would  drag  him 
down  to  her  life  of  the  Ghetto !  She  is  following 
him  everywhere.  The  papers  are  remarking  it  — 
with  something  between  the  lines. 

CLORA 
That 's  why  I  stopped  reading  them. 

MRS.  DENTON 
Then  you  do  still  care  what  happens  to  Tony ! 

CLORA 
In  a  way,  no  doubt. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  183 

MRS.  DENTON 
Down  deep  in  your  heart,  you  care ! 

CLORA 

Say  I  do  love  Tony — love  him  as  I  should  love  a 
child  —  a  big,  helpless  boy !  What  then  ?  He  has 
failed  to  make  me  in  love ! 

MRS.  DENTON 
In  love?  And  what  of\\.l 

CLORA 

What  of  it  ?  All  that  for  years  I  have  hungered 
for,  in  a  flash  it  is  mine.  If  you  could  know  him 
as  he  is  —  so  light,  so  gay,  so  generously  devoted  ; 
ready  to  give  over  the  whole  great  world  he  lives 
in,  with  no  regret  but  for  what  /am  losing.  Every 
moment  he  envelops,  suffuses,  with  his  tenderness, 
his  charm.  It  is  a  spell,  Alice  —  a  spell  that  will 
last  forever !  I  shall  be  everything  to  him  I  have 
not  been  to  Tony. 

MRS.  DENTON 
And  what  you  have  been  to  Tony  ?   Do  you  forget 


1 84  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

how  we  talked  —  how  we  felt !  —  in  those  old  days 
of  furs  and  violets  ? 

CLORA 
( Wincing1.) 

Tony  was  different ! 

MRS.  DENTON 

It  is  Lord  Iffley  who  is  different.  That  is  his  one 
great  hold  on  you  —  his  idle  gayety,  his  charm. 

CLORA 

At  heart  he  is  also  a  man  —  honest,  intelligent, 
ambitious ! 

MRS.  DENTON 

Yes!  But  what  has  it  meant  to  him  —  being  in 
love?  Since  he  has  known  you  he  has  changed. 
Look  into  the  sacrifice  of  his  life,  and  yours,  and 
you  will  find  it  shallow  enough. 

CLORA 
His  sacrifice  —  shallow  ! 

MRS.  DENTON 
He  hoped  to  put  so  much  into  his  life.   Such  a 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  185 

marriage,  in  England,  will  put  him  down  and  out. 
He  will  be  just  another  idle  Englishman  who  has 
given  his  manhood  for  the  passion  of  a  moment. 

(She  lays  her  palms  on  Clara's  shoulders?) 

Forgive  me.  It  is  the  truth!  You  will  ruin  not 
one  man  but  two.  Good-by. 

(At  the  door.} 
Oh,  Clora! 
(Exit.} 

(Clora  stands  at  the  table,  dazed.  Mechanically  she 
takes  the  violets  and  puts  them  in  her  jacket ;  then, 
realizing  with  a  start,  throws  them  down} 

(Enter  Iffley.  He  wears  a  long,  light  overcoat  with  a 
wide,  black  band  on  the  arm.  He  is  in  a  breeze  of 
high  spirits} 

IFFLEY 
(Taking  her  hands} 

I  have  been  so  hungry —  out  of  my  senses,  almost, 
with  love  of  you !  Every  day  that  brings  us  nearer 
doubles  up  my  sufferin'  —  until,  by  Jove,  I  think  I 
should  die,  if  I  did  n't  double  up  my  happiness, 
too !  All  day  I  have  felt  that  I  had  you  tucked 


186  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

away,  warm  and  throbbin',  inside  my  great-coat. 
All  day  I  have  heard  your  voice  —  a  song  in  my 
heart ! 

CLORA 

I  have  been  needing  you  as  never  before  —  need 
ing  your  love ! 

(Deliberately  she  takes  the  violets,  buries  her  face  in 
them,  and  thrusts  them  into  her  jacket)) 

I  thought  I  was  yours  already.  To-night,  in  this 
very  last  hour,  I  have  sounded  depth  after  depth 
of  surrender. 

IFFLEY 
(Eagerly)) 

Then  you  will !  Your  ticket  —  I ' ve  arranged  the 
stop-over. 

(A  gleam  in  his  eye.} 

I  shall  be  there  before  you. 

(He  seizes  her  as  if  to  hold  her  in  a  long  embrace} 

CLORA 

(Gently  forcing  herself  apart  from  him} 
I  meant  a  different  surrender. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  187 

IFFLEY 

But  in  our  hearts  we  are  married  already.  You 
promised  .  .  . 

CLORA 

Since  you  insisted.  But  to-night  I  am  facing  a 
bigger,  yes,  a  deeper,  a  harder  surrender.  You  will 
have  to  be  very  good.  They  have  n't  been  nice  to 
me. 

IFFLEY 
They? 

CLORA 

Every  one  who  knows  is  against  me.  And  Muriel 
Schuyler !  She  kissed  me  and  spoke  of  my  good 
ness  and  purity.  I  had  n't  had  the  heart  to  kiss  her ! 
Why  could  n't  I  ?  More  than  anything  else  that 
hurt  me.  It  still  hurts !  Oh,  Edmund !  Am  I  not 
good  and  pure  ? 

(On  a  sudden  thought?) 

She  has  just  gone  down.  She  did  n't  meet  you  here  ! 

IFFLEY 

I  only  saw  Mrs.  Denton  — and  Sally  in  the  tele 
phone  booth. 


i88  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

CLORA 
Sally? 

IFF LEY 

The  elevator  boy  said  she  was  calling  up  Wayne 
—  for  news  of  the  election,  he  hoped. 

CLORA 
Sally  is  bitter  —  bitter ! 

IFFLEY 
But  we  have  plans  for  Sally. 

CLORA 

She  has  refused  to  —  to  be  a  burden.  That  is  my 
one  great  regret. 

IFFLEY 

Jove,  I  'd  forgotten  ! 
(He  laughs  happily.} 
I  have  news,  too ! 
(Indicating  the  band  on  his  arm.) 

CLORA 
Bad  news ! 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  189 

IFFLEY 

(Suffusing  exultation^) 

That 's  what  kept  me  so  late.  The  Earl  and  my 
cousin  are  dead. 

CLORA 
Dead! 

IFFLEY 

I  confirmed  it  over  the  cable.  The  earldom  is  ours. 
We  're  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  —  of  blowin'  it 
in! 

CLORA 
Dead,  Edmund  —  both  of  them  ? 

IFFLEY 

Cousin  let  his  horse  chuck  him  at  a  stone  fence. 
Uncle  had  a  weak  heart,  and  the  shock  carried  him 
off.  Perhaps  Sally  will  come  with  us  now,  eh  ? 

CLORA 
(Shocked.) 

But,  Edmund  !  They  are  your  nearest  of  kin  —  and 
dead ! 


190  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

IFFLEY 
(Sitting  on  the  table,  his  arms  about  her  shoulders?) 

I  know  I  seem  shockin'  callous.  But  they  hated  me 
worse  than  I  hated  them,  and  with  less  cause.  Oh, 

(Indicating  the  band  on  his  arm] 

I  '11  do  the  proper  in  public.  But  between  our 
selves,  as  you  say,  the  reality  of  things !  You  had 
one  great  regret ;  it  has  vanished  !  By  Jove,  when 
the  fellehs  see  the  good  sort  Sally  is,  she  can  bag 
the  man  she  chooses  ! 

CLORA 

But  .  .  .  Sally !  And  if  people  cut  us,  how  could 
we  bring  her  out  ? 

IFFLEY 

(Still  smiling  broadly?) 

Cut  me  !  Not  on  your  little  life !  You  've  heard  of 
the  divinity  that  hedges  a  king?  Well,  there's  a 
clinkin'  high  curbstone  round  an  earl.  Now  I  have 
money  and  the  title,  I  can  do  anything  I  like.  Do 
you  know  what  that  uncle  of  mine  did  ?  He  was  a 
godly  soul,  and  got  the  whole  country-side  singin' 
psalms  through  their  noses. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  191 

CLORA 

And  we,  being  quite  godless,  will  create  a  furore 
of  divorce  and  remarriage. 

IFFLEY 

The  American  idea!  Susan  falls  ;  Sioux  Falls  ;  Sue 
is  on  her  feet  again,  straight  as  ever ! 

(He  laughs?) 

CLORA 

(Earnestly?) 

Edmund,  the  whole  situation  has  become  serious. 

IFFLEY 

(Swinging  his  leg  lightly?) 
Serious  !  I  should  say  it  has ! 

(Smiling  broadly,  he  takes  a  large  handkerchief  with 
a  wide  black  border,  puts  it  in  his  outside  breast 
pocket  and  taps  the  corners,  which  show?) 

We  agreed  to  despise  what  they  say  —  the  little 
conventional  world.  Now,  by  Jove,  we  can  do  it ! 

CLORA 
Little?  Ah,  it 's  bigger  than  I  knew!   To-night  I 


192  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

have  seen  it  in  my  heart  —  in  the  hearts  of  others. 
Sally  won't  go  with  us :  I  know  her.  She  is  loyal 
to  Tony.  And  living  here,  how  will  she  ever  be 
married  ?  Our  happiness  will  mean  the  waste  of 
her  life,  perhaps.  Grandmem  has  given  her  whole 
heart  to  us,  was  so  proud  of  me !  I  have  robbed 
her  of  love  and  pride  —  have  left  her  shame  and 
bitterness.  Until  to-night  I  have  thought  only  of 
what  /  am  losing  —  the  world  was  little,  com 
pared  to  you  !  Now  I  see  what  I  am  taking  from 
them,  and  we  are  as  nothing,  you  and  I. 

(Pause.  Iffley  has  become  serious?) 

And  Tony  —  they  say  I  'm  ruining  his  life.  Never 
forget,  Edmund,  that  once  I  loved  him ! 

IFFLEY 
Good  God !  Do  you  think  I  'm  likely  to  forget ! 

(Facing  her  with  evident  suffering!) 

What  do  you  mean  !  Loved  him  once  f  You  love 
him  still/  The  whole  world  lies  open  before  us, 
and  you  talk  of  —  of  him  / 

CLORA 
Edmund !  You  —  jealous  f 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  193 

IFFLEY 

At  the  thought  of  —  of  him,  God  knows  I  suffer. 
(  With  dignity  and  impetuous  honesty?) 

I  am  jealous  !  And  I  have  cause,  if  you  have  one 
regret !  Look  into  your  heart,  I  beg  you  !  Don't  let 
our  whole  life  be  a  torture. 

CLORA 
(Bravely  and  with  conviction?) 

No,  Edmund.  It  is  fate.  Only,  all  our  lives  we  must 
remember  this  :  I  am  bound  by  a  double  bond  to 
bring  you  happiness.  If  ever  I  find  I  have  not  — 
that  I  've  spoiled  your  life,  too  .  .  .  Ah,  you  see, 
dear  .  .  . 

IFFLEY 
If  that  is  all — you  are  makiri  my  life ! 

CLORA 
(Brightening?) 

In  one  respect  your  news  is  magnificent !  The  way 
is  open  again  to  your  career.  You  have  thought  of 
that? 


194  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

IFFLEY 

(Looks  at  her  a  moment,  reflecting  seriously  ;  then,  as 
suming  the  note  of  gayety  that  at  first  was  natural?) 

Career  ?  I  did  n't  know  I  had  any. 

CLORA 

It  is  you  who  said  it.  You  are  fearfully  keen  about 
the  Empire.  Think  of  the  position,  the  influence 
we  shall  have  !  You  may  be  —  who  knows  ?  — 
Prime  Minister. 

IFFLEY 

Nonsense !  Too  much  fag.  As  you  say  here,  nothin' 
doin'. 

CLORA 
(Disappointed  ;  vexed '.) 

In  America,  we  say  our  "  i-n-g." 

IFFLEY 

(  With  studious  carelessness^) 
Since  you  're  so  jolly  partic'lar,  no\h-ing  do-ing-  / 

CLORA 
Dear,  we  must  be  serious. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  195 

IFFLEY 

Never  in  my  life  more  serious.  Politics  !  Have  you 
ever  noticed  that  General  Elections  have  a  way  of 
fallin'  in  the  very  cream  of  the  huntin'  season? 

CLORA 
But  you  meant  what  you  said  —  honestly  ? 

IFFLEY 
(Seriously.) 

Why,  yes.  Of  course. 

CLORA 
Then  why  pretend  you  are  —  shallow! 

IFFLEY 
(Piqued.) 

Eh!  Shallow? 

(Evasively.) 

Oh,  I  don't  know.    A  rush  of  prosperity  to  the 

head. 

CLORA 

Then  you  will  think  seriously  of  a  career  —  honor 
bright  ? 


196  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

IFFLEY 
(Tenderly.} 

Clorinda,  dear!  The  fact  is,  I  was  pretendin'.  A 
career  is  n't  possible  !  Socially  anythin*  goes  — 
if  you  have  a  title,  and  the  money  to  make  it.  But 
—  you  force  me  to  say  it :  I  must  be  square  with 
you  !  Politics  is  different.  The  British  public  is 
dead  set  against  —  you  know  —  the  sort  of  thing 
we  're  goin'  in  for. 

CLORA 

(Dashed.} 

And  I  meant  to  be  so  good  for  you ! 

IFFLEY 
(Kindly.} 

Impossible.  I  always  hate  things  that  are  good 
for  me. 

CLORA 
Ah,  Edmund,  it  is  my  one  regret ! 

IFFLEY 

Nonsense,  dear !  7  don't  care.  Coves  like  us,  you 
know,  with  everything  in  the  world  to  make  us 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  197 

happy  —  we  'd  just  have  to  force  ourselves  to  be 

serious. 

CLORA 

But  I  am  serious.     I  shall  do  my  duty. 

IFFLEY 
Your  duty  ? 

(Interested^) 

You  mean  —  the  heir  to  the  earldom? 

CLORA 
(Shocked) 

Edmund  !  Oh  —  oh  !  I  meant  —  there  are  so  many 
ways  I  have  failed  Tony.  I  want  to  be  everything 
to  you  I  have  not  been  to  him. 

IFFLEY 

(Still  following  his  own  idea.) 
That 's  jolly  fine  of  you  —  splendid  ! 
(On  a  sudden  recollection^) 

But  I  thought  you  did  n't  go  in  for  that  sort  of 

thing. 

CLORA 

You  are  horribly  literal ! 
(Piqued  at  what  he  has  just  said^) 


198  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

But  why  shouldn't  I — if,  as  you  say,  it's  jolly 
fine,  splendid? 

IFFLEY 
( Uneasily?) 

Well,  y'  see  .  .  .  Why,  y'  know  .  .  .  Hang  it, 
you  strike  me  as  the  sort  of  wroman  that 's  too 
fine,  too  intellectual  and  all  that,  to  be  interfered 
with,  upset  .  .  . 

CLORA 
(Still  on  the  defensive^) 

After  what  you  are  giving  up  for  me,  do  you 
think  there  's  anything  I  would  n't  do  that  was 
"Jolly  fine,  splendid!" 

IFFLEY 

(Looks  at  her  uneasily ',  pauses,  then  again  forces  the 
note  of  carelessness.} 

Duty !  Not  to  my  title !  The  first  earl,  my  great 
grandfather,  was  a  brewer  —  a  rum  old  sort.  You 
know  what  they  say  —  the  Peerage  has  become 
the  Beerage!  Duty?  Why,  when  Mad  Anthony 
Wayne  was  fighting  us  British  —  and  lickin'  us, 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  199 

too  !  —  my  illustrious  forbear  was  messin'  round 
his  beer  vats. 

CLORA 

(Annoyed,  she  tucks  the  corners  of  his  pocket  handker 
chief  out  of  sight.} 

It  is  no  pretense.  You  are  shallow  —  vapid. 

IFFLEY 

(Also  annoyed} 

I  don't  like  the  way  you  express  yourself.  Did  you 
care  such  an  awful  lot  for  Tony  Wayne's  career, 
for  his  family  ? 

CLORA 

(Excitedly} 

You  fling  that  reproach  at  me  —  you  ! 

IFFLEY 

(Attempting  to  embrace  her} 

Don't,  don't !  In  a  moment,  good  Lord,  we  shall 
be  quarrelin'. 

CLORA 

(A  ngrily  ;  struggling  free} 

Don't  touch  me !  Vapid  ?  You  are  positively  inane ! 


200  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

IFFLEY 
(Stung  to  the  quick.) 

And  you  are  a  little  she  devil ! 
(Controlling  himself  in  a  measure?) 

Clorinda,  dear !  Pull  yourself  in !  We  're  off  on 
the  same  sort  of  go  —  you  know  —  with  him  ! 

CLORA 
Him?  Always  him.  I  forbid  you! 

IFFLEY 

I  might  have  known  it !  This  is  serious !  You 
have  all  the  charm  of  the  American  girl  —  and 
her  one  great  foible. 

(Friendly,  satirical ;  yet  with  deep  latent  seriousness?) 

You  are  a  feahful  tyrant !  You  even  have  a  han- 
kerin'  to  change  my  speakin'  English.  It  don't 
make  for  happiness  —  not  in  the  long  run,  on 
either  side.  And  we  }re  goin'  to  be  happy. 

(Calmly  but  very  firmly?) 

Every  household  has  a  mistress.  But  every  couple 
has  a  master. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  201 

CLORA 
( With  mounting  spirit  1) 

My  master!  That's  your  idea  of  real  love,  free 
love  !  Ah,  magnificent !  Rule,  Britannia !  Britan 
nia  rules  the  wyves  ! 

IFFLEY 
The  national  motto.  Rule  a  wife  and  have  a  wife. 

CLORA 

You  are  an  Englishman.  Always  that  has  been 
my  one  regret. 

IFFLEY 
(Losing  his  temper?) 

Your  one  regret !  Already  you  Ve  told  me  five  of 
'em.  We  've  come  into  an  earldom,  and  you  take 
the  hair  off  my  head.  You  regret  everything  but 
your  own  insensate  willfulness. 

CLORA 
(As  if  with  set  teeth.) 

Let  me  tell  you,  Lord  Edmund  Cecil  Alexander 
Iffley,  Viscount  Langdune,  and  Earl  of  Hunting- 


202  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

ton,  you  are  not  my  master!  You  haven't  one 
decent  aspiration.  You  don't  even  respect  me  ! 

IFFLEY 
(Deeply  indignant^ 

By  Heaven,  you  are  unjust ! 

CLORA 

Then  why  do  you  make  light  of  —  of  my  obvious 
duty !  Do  you  want  to  make  me  a  traitor  to  every 
womanly  impulse ! 

IFFLEY 

You  know  why  we've  quarreled  —  vulgar  middle- 
class  quarrel? 

CLORA 
Vulgar  ?  Middle  class  ? 

IFFLEY 

Because  I  tried  not  to  wound  you.  But  —  since 
you  make  me  !  In  England  I  don't  know  if  there 
are  such  divorces.  You  remember  Stanhope  and 
his  American  wife  ?  Their  children,  it  turned  out, 
were  illegitimate  beggars. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  203 

CLORA 

(Shocked ;  deeply  wounded.} 

Oh !  It  is  true  !  I'm  ruining  your  life  as  I  ruined 
Tony's ! 

IFFLEY 

You  are  talkin'  an  awful  lot  of  rot  in  a  manner 
quite  excited. 

CLORA 
(Turning  away  from  him} 

For  the  first  time  I  see  the  whole  thing  clearly ! 
It's  all  ^"between  us !  I  should  ruin  you  in  every 
manly  ambition.  You  yourself  confess  it ! 

(She  pauses  and  faces  him,  inquiringly.    Iffley  is  em 
barrassed,  silent} 

If  there  is  any  other  way  — 

(Coming  toward  him,  appealingly} 

tell  me  ? 

(She pauses.  Reluctantly,  Iffley  shakes  his  head} 

What  are  you  thinking  ?  Tell  me ! 

IFFLEY 
There  is  no  other  way  .  .  . 


204  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

CLORA 
Then  it  is  all  off ! 

IFFLEY 

Unless  .  .  .  unless  we  made  no  pretense  of  mar 
ry  in'. 

CLORA 
How  —  no  pretense  ? 

IFFLEY 

The  British  Public,  you  know  —  what  it  don't 
know  never  hurts  you. 

CLORA 
(Mystified.) 

You  mean  a  secret  marriage  ? 

IFFLEY 
( Uneasily?} 

Well,  as  I  say,  I  'm  afraid  no  real  marriage  is  pos 
sible.  And,  anyway,  we  might  n't  be  able  to  keep 
it  secret. 

CLORA 
(Stunned?) 

You  mean  —  I'm  to  live  with  you  .  .  .  without .  .  .  ! 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  205 

IFFLEY 

Since  you  insist  on  my  career  —  it  is  the  only 
way ;  but,  sweetheart,  why  insist !  /  don't  care. 

CLORA 
(An  outcry.) 

Oh,  monstrous! 

(She  strides  away  from  him.) 

To  live  a  sneaking  life,  in  fear  and  shame  —  your 
mistress  ! 

IFFLEY 

Dearest  —  dearest!  It's  often  done  —  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  carry  it  off !  You  would  go 
everywhere.  I  could  tell  you  a  dozen  people  who '  ve 
done  it.  Compared  to  all  we  've  dreamed  of,  such 
a  life  would  be  freedom  itself.  Instead  of  the  old 
shooting-box  and  two  thousand  a  year,  outcast, 
disclassed  —  think  of  it !  —  wealth,  a  career,  the 
whole  great  world ! 

CLORA 

(Striding  up  and  down  like  a  lioness.) 
Have  your  career  without  me  !    On  your  ancestral 


206  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

estate  your  legal  wife,  the  Countess,  and  your  lord- 
ling  heirs  !  You  propose  that  —  to  me  !  Oh  !  Oh  ! 

IFFLEY 

(Following  her  up  and  down  with  intense  indignation^) 
I  never  proposed  it ! 

CLORA 
Did  I  propose  it  ?  Blackguard ! 

IFFLEY 

No  one  proposed  it !  You  put  the  case  up  to  me, 
and  I  told  you  the  honest  truth.  Blackguard  ?  Any 
other  felleh  would  have  sidestepped  all  that  —  said 
nothin',  and  led  you  into  a  fool's  paradise.  I  have 
been  honest  with  you  —  showed  you  the  whole 
truth  as  it  is !  And  you  call  me  blackguard ! 

CLORA 

But  you  urged  it  —  pleaded  the  honorable  exam 
ple  of  your  friends  .  .  .  Oh,  Edmund  !  You ! 

IFFLEY 

( With  increasing  indignation.) 
I  urged  notftin' !  But  you  — you  prate  of  bein'  com- 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  207 

rades,  and  when  I  am  frank  and  square  with  you, 
you  turn  on  me  like  a  tiger  cat.  You  live  in  a  hazy 
dream  of  self-sacrifice,  and  when  you  see  the  thing 
we're  doin'  without  blinders,  you  shy  into  the 
ditch.  You  prattle  of  free  love,  of  the  reality  of 
things.  An  empty  rigamarole !  You  have  as  much 
sense  of  it  all  as  a  mechanical  doll  squeaking 
ma-ma!  You  advanced?  You  intellectual?  You 
have  the  intellect  of  a  phonograph ! 
(Shouting  in  her  ear  as  she  strides  away  from  him.} 
Rigamarole !  Rigamarole ! 

CLORA 

(Stopping  abruptly  and  facing  him.} 
I  see  the  reality  of  things.  I  see  it  — now  !  I  am  to 
be  nothing  to  you  —  worse  than  nothing !  But  you 
— you  are  already  husband!  Rigamarole? 
(She  laughs  bitterly,  hysterically) 
Love?  In  love?  There's  a  hoodoo  on  me.    What 
ever  I  touch  becomes  husband  —  husband — HUS 
BAND! 

(She  throws  herself  in  the  chair  and  leans  on  the  table.} 

In  every  word  you  say  I  hear  the  voice  of  Tony 
Wayne ! 


208  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

IFFLEY 
Wayne  —  Wayne !  Always  Tony  Wayne ! 

CLORA 
You  do  him  the  honor  of  being  jealous  —  him  ! 

IFFLEY 

And  you  ?  Why  did  you  forbid  me  to  speak  of 
him  ?  I  know  a  man  when  I  see  one. 

( With  deep  shame.} 

I  —  like  him  !  I  have  done  him  the  wrong  he  never 
would  have  done  —  never  could  have.  He  is  a  man, 
and  I  ...  As  you  say,  I  am  a  blackguard. 

CLORA 
Then  it  is  all  off  between  us ! 

IFFLEY 

( Stunned  ;  pleading?) 
Clorinda!    It  can't  be  off! 

CLORA 
And  why  not? 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  209 

IFFLEY 

You  forget  our  love.  And  how  would  you  live  — 
with  no  one !  I  know  him.  He  never  will  stand  for 
the  thing  we  have  done.  Come  in  any  way  you 
please  —  but  come  you  must. 

CLORA 
You  think  you  have  me  in  your  power ! 

IFFLEY 

As  you  love  me,  I  have  got  you  in  my  power. 
And  as  I  love  you,  by  Heaven,  I  '11  keep  you  there ! 

CLORA 

No,  Edmund.  I  have  one  little  virtue  —  honesty. 
Free  love  !  It 's  a  castle  in  the  air. 

(Looking  round  at  the  house  and  the  stars.) 

Or  rather,  a  cottage  in  the  sky  !  No,  Edmund.  For 
me  as  for  Sally,  it  is  back  to  the  old  life  here  —  to 
gether. 

IFFLEY 
You  live  here  —  this  kennel,  this  hutch ! 


210  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

CLORA 
(Simply.) 

Yes,  Edmund.  This  kennel,  this  hutch. 

(A  cough  is  heard  within.  Sally  appears  at  the  door?) 

SALLY 
Clora,  Tony  is  coming. 

CLORA 
Here  !  What  does  he  want  ? 

SALLY 

I  told  him  you  needed  him. 
(Coolly.} 
You  may  not  know  it ;  but  you  do,  you  know. 

CLORA 

Lord  Edmund's  uncle  and  cousin  are  both  dead. 
(Sub-acidly.} 
You  might  congratulate  him. 

SALLY 
Oh,  I  am  sorry !    That  is,  Lord  Edmund, 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  211 

(A  qiiizzical  smile) 

I'm  glad  of  your  good  fortune.    May  I  say  so? 
They  were  n't  your  dearest  friends  ? 

(They  go  round  the  corner?) 

(Enter  Wayne.    He  faces  Clora,  haggard,  heartsick?) 

WAYNE 
I  am  here. 

CLORA 

( With  forced  lightness?) 
How  interesting !  So  am  I. 

WAYNE 

Then  you  don't  want  me !  I  knew  it 
(He  turns  away.) 

CLORA 
Tony  1 

(She  starts  toward  him;  he  looks  over  his  shoulder.} 
I  never  dreamed  what  Sally  was  doing. 
(He  hesitates  a  moment ',  then  again  walks  on.} 

But,  Tony,  now  you  are  here  .  .  .  they  say  you 
are  suffering  —  on  account  of  me. 


212  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

WAYNE 

(Facing  her.} 

Not  on  account  of  you.    On  account  of  another 
woman  — 

CLORA 

(Ironically} 

Already ! 

WAYNE 

On  account  of  the  quite  imaginary  creature  that 
for  five  foolish  years  I  thought  you ! 

CLORA 

(Dignified,  yet  with  a  trace  of  cajolery} 
Then  you  did  love  me — once? 

WAYNE 
Yes,  damn  you,  I  did ! 

CLORA 

( With  arch  seriousness} 

That  sounds  very  ardent.    I  don't  like  the  way  it 
feels. 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  213 

WAYNE 
Have  n't  you  tortured  me  enough  ? 

CLORA 

It's  an  old  habit  —  hard  to  break  off,  all  at  once. 
But  I  do  want  to  tell  you  —  I  'm  not  going  away 
with  Lord  Iffley. 

WAYNE 
( With  angry  scorn.) 

You  have  betrayed  him  too — already! 

CLORA 
No.  He  has  fallen  heir  to  the  earldom. 

WAYNE 
(Sardonically.} 

I  congratulate  you. 

CLORA 

If  you  wish.  Yet  if  you  don't  mind,  I  won't  get  the 
divorce. 

WAYNE 
(Bitterly.) 

It  is  he  who  is  leaving  you.  You  want  to  come 
back? 


214  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

CLORA 


(Dee 

No,  Tony,  no  !  I  shall  stay  here  .  .  . 

WAYNE 

(Not  heeding.} 

By  Heaven  !  The  woman  who  lives  with  me  shall 
be  my  wife  ! 

CLORA 
Tony  !  I  have  n't  asked  to  —  to  be  that  woman. 

WAYNE 
(  With  intense  bitterness.} 

You  —  a  woman  !  Once  there  were  women  in  this 
land  —  the  wives  of  strong  men,  and  the  mothers. 
The  sons  they  bore  tamed  the  wilderness,  framed 
the  laws  of  a  great  nation.  In  you  and  the  mil 
lions  like  you  to-day  their  spirit  is  dead.  The  race 
of  Americans  has  vanished  ! 

CLORA 
(Ironically^ 

It  sounds  as  if  you  still  cared  for  me  —  just  as 
always  ! 


ACT  m]  HUSBAND  215 

(Seriously) 

Are  we  as  bad  as  that?  The  world  is  so  full  of 
people. 

WAYNE 
But  not  our  people ! 

(Pointing  to  the  distance?) 

Down  there,  in  dark  alleys  and  filthy  holes,  the 
future  of  America  is  teeming.  Even  to-day  they  are 
more  American  than  we  are  ;  they  have  the  cour 
age  to  live  their  own  lives  freely,  fully,  in  every 
function  1 

CLORA 

(A  touch  of  jealous  mockery?) 

Ah,  as  I  thought.  The  prolific  Levine  !  I  '11  get  the 
divorce  if  you  wish.  Oh,  I  foresee  Young  America ! 
Little,  nosey  Tonys,  who  do  so  ! 

(A  flicker  of  her  palm  beneath  her  chin?) 

WAYNE 

We  do  well  to  mock  them :  they  are  our  con 
querors. 


2i 6  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

CLORA 
( With  arch  sarcasm.] 

They  are  frightfully  immoral.  They  believe  in  free 
love! 

WAYNE 

A  few  of  them  profess  to.  What  difference  does 
that  make  ? 

CLORA 

It  made  a  difference  to  the  comrades  Levine.  They 
loved  —  then  laughed  and  parted. 

WAYNE 
Laughed ! 
(Sardonically.} 

When  she  bade  him  good-by,  he  smashed  her 
nose  and  blacked  both  eyes.  She  put  him  on 
Blackwell's  Island.  But  don't  worry !  When  he 
comes  out,  she  '11  go  back  to  him.  The  new  mar 
riage  !  Our  ideas  of  marriage  change  from  age 
to  age ;  but  the  reality  is  always  the  same.  Free 
love  !  Since  Noah  and  the  Ark,  men  and  women 
have  talked  of  it  and  tried  it.  We  still  go  in  couples. 


ACT  m]  HUSBAND  217 

CLORA 
You  mean  that  for  women  the  reality  is  a  black  eye ! 

WAYNE 

In  one  way  or  another  it  comes  to  that  —  when 
they  are  faithless. 

(He  turns  to  go.) 

CLORA 
(Half  to  herself  .) 

I  have  the  black  eye.    But  you  —  you  are  harder 
than  you  say  that  man  .  .  . 

(Wayne pauses,  seeing  Sally  as  she  enters.) 

SALLY 

Oh,  Clora,  the  worst  / 
(Seeing  Wayne.) 

Tony  —  the  light !  It  is  to  the  south  ! 
(Disconsolate,  she  throws  herself  into  his  arms.) 

WAYNE 
(Bravely.) 

Don't  take  it  hard,  Sally-sis.    I  've  known  it  was 
coming. 


218  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

( Very  tenderly^ 

Cheer  up,  little  sister.  The  nicest  thing  in  the  world 
is  to  have  you  care ! 

CLORA 

( With  latent  jealousy.') 
I  care  too,  Tony.    I  do,  I  do  ! 

(Sally  looks  from  one  to  the  other y  and  steals  away, 
round  the  corner.} 

WAYNE 

(Gazing fixedly  at  Clora.) 
You  —  care  ! 

CLORA 
( With  deep  emotion^ 

Yes  //  Oh,  I  do  care  !  Believe  me !  That  is  why  I 
am  —  am  not  going.  I  have  brought  harm  to  every 
one  —  to  Sally,  even  to  him  —  as  I  brought  harm 
to  you.  Your  whole  strength  was  tested  —  your 
whole  life  at  stake.  At  least  I  might  have  given 
you  comfort  and  rest.  But  I  betrayed  you.  In  my 
selfishness,  my  vanity,  I  betrayed  you  —  1 1  Tell 
me  —  you  are  unhappy  alone  ? 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  219 

WAYNE 

I  am  alone,  but  not  unhappy.  The  future  is  still 
mine !  Those  people  down  there  —  do  you  know 
when  I  found  my  interest  in  them  ?  When  I  first 
felt  the  sin,  the  futility  of  our  love,  yours  and 
mine  —  of  our  whole  life  !  The  seed  of  the  age  to 
come  is  theirs.  I  may  still  help  to  prepare  the  land 
for  them  —  to  prepare  them  for  this  land  that  once 
was  ours. 

CLORA 

Yes.  The  future  is  yours !  But  you  are  harder, 
more  cruel  than  that  man  on  BlackwelPs  Island. 
Let  me  stand  by  you,  and  I  will  give  you  peace 
and  strength,  for  years  —  forever  !  —  until  you 
have  won  the  victory  that  to-night  I  have  cost  you. 
I  will  be  nothing  to  you  ;  or,  God  willing,  I  will  be 
everything  you  have  ever  wished  —  your  wife  .  .  . 
( With  deep  humility.} 
My  husband  ! 

WAYNE 

(Bitterly :  mocking.) 

Husband  !  I  seem  to  remember  that  word  !  I  shall 
be  husband  no  more.  I  know  you  as  you  are !  The 


220  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

gracious  American  girl  —  all  our  lives  we  Ve  been 
taught  we  're  unworthy  of  her.  She  is  the  heroine 
of  the  ten-cent  magazine,  the  artistic  triumph  of 
the  yellow  printing-press,  the  ideal  of  school-girls 
and  the  envy  of  shop-girls.  She  is  as  deep  in  vanity 
and  waste  as  she  is  shallow  of  heart.    She  is  hand 
in  glove  with  all  men  —  the  mate  of  no  man.  Go, 
be  the  mistress  of  nobility.  You  are  fit  for  it ! 
(  With  intense  scorn .) 
Husband  ! 

CLORA 
(In  utmost  sincerity?) 

Perhaps  I  am  what  you  say.  Yet,  I  '11  tell  you  a 
secret,  Tony  —  a  secret  against  my  sex.  We  pre 
tend  to  ourselves  we  are  above  such  things  —  the 
things  for  which  we  were  made.  Oh,  we  pretend 
very  well !  But  a  woman  is  —  a  woman.  I  never 
knew  one  of  us  but  deep  down  in  her  heart  she 
was  mortally  ashamed  to  be  childless. 

(Not  heeding  her,   Wayne  walks  vigorously  to  the  door?) 

(She  reaches  her  hands  toward  him  and  pleads  with 
fervor  and  deep  abasement?) 

Tony !  I  am  not  accustomed  to  plead,  yet  I  beg  you 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  221 

—  remember !  By  the  girl  I  once  was  ;  by  the  love 
you  once  gave  me  —  though  I  am  not  worthy  of  it 

—  remember ! 

(Exit  Wayne?) 

(Clora  stands  dazed  a  moment.   Then  enter  Sally.} 

SALLY 
Tony  has  left  you  —  in  anger ! 

CLORA 

(Nods  absently?} 

Yes. 

SALLY 

Then  you  have  not  sent  him  away  —  Lord  Iffley. 

CLORA 

{Smiling  very  sadly '.) 

He  had  told  you  —  already?  I  have  sent  him 
away.  I  know  —  you  said  it !  I  have  made  him 
desperately  unhappy.  But  he  is  young,  and  a  man. 
In  the  end  he  will  find  some  true  woman. 

SALLY 
But  with  Tony  —  must  it  be  all  over  ? 


222  HUSBAND  [ACT    III 

CLORA 

Why  not?  I  used  to  think  I  loved  him  —  more 
than  he  loved  me.  I  had  only  a  few  odd  senti 
ments  —  weak  sentimentalities.  I  see  it  —  now  !  To 
be  in  love  —  it  is  such  a  little  thing.  To  love  —  ah, 
that  is  something !  His  life  is  a  passion,  an  ideal. 
For  me  there  is  no  place  in  it. 
(Crying  otit  in  bitter  self -mockery^) 

Ruin  his  life  ?  Everything  I  have  made  him  suffer 
has  raised  him  above  himself !  Ruin  any  true  man  ? 
It  is  /  who  am  blackened,  corrupted. 

SALLY 
Not  yet,  dear  .  .  . 

CLORA 

Not  before  the  world.  I  could  stand  that.  But  in 
my  own  heart.    Oh,  sister,  what  an  awakening! 
The  things  I  have  lived  for  —  they  are  not  what  I 
care  for.  Deep  down  in  my  heart  I  want  .  .  . 
(She  pauses  as  if  searching  her  heart?) 

SALLY 
Tony ;  you  want  Tony.  Oh !  I  forgot ! 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  223 

CLORA 
Tony,  yes !  But  more  than  that ! 

(She  paiises,  gazing  blankly  into  space.  Sally  slips 
quietly  out  at  the  door.  Clora  does  not  see  that  she 
has  gone?) 

For  once  in  my  life  I  see  my  whole  heart !  .  .  - 
(Turning  slightly  away  from  where  Sally  has  been.) 

Don't  look  at  me,  Sally-sis!  Yet  listen.  I  must  say 
it !  ...  All  my  life  I  have  feared  one  thing  —  the 
only  thing  I  have  felt  to  be  greater  and  stronger 
than  I  —  children  !  I  know  I  'm  absurd  ;  but  don't 
laugh  at  me !  If  you  laughed,  I  could  n't  bear  it. 
Children  —  the  Children  of  Heaven  .  .  .  they 
have  threatened  to  conquer  my  life,  to  make  me 
their  slave  .  .  .  their  willing  slave !  Soft  little 
hands  have  reached  out  to  me,  Sally.  Out  of  the 
mighty  past  they  have  reached  to  me  —  through 
me  to  the  mightier  future !  To  them  my  happiness 
has  been  nothing  —  no  more  than  a  flower  which 
is  withered  and  blown  to  the  winds,  that  the  au 
tumn  may  bring  harvest.  I  have  feared  them,  I 
have  hated  them  —  wishing  to  live  an  eternal 
spring.  I  have  scorned  them  and  scoffed  them, 
Sally,  till  you  have  thought  me  hard  and  hateful. 


224  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

But  it  was  only  because  in  my  deepest  heart  I 
loved  them — loved  them  beyond  all  the  world! 
In  day  dreams  little  rosy  fingers  have  brushed  my 
cheek  ;  little  golden  heads  have  lain  against  my 
bosom.  At  night,  in  my  deepest  dreams,  longing 
eyes  have  rebuked  me.  They  have  pleaded,  oh,  so 
sadly  pleaded,  for  life  and  love!  And  they  have 
pursued  me,  the  Children  of  Heaven  !  They  have 
pursued  me  like  bloodhounds,  day  and  night,  with 
out  mercy  ...  to  destroy.  But  their  hunger  is  the 
hunger  of  eternal  love.  To-night  — 

(A  pause) 

I  am  free  for  the  first  time  —  free  of  the  lifelong 
fear  of  them.  And  for  the  first  time  I  am  wretched. 
Oh,  I  know  now  how  those  people  feel  who  take 
their  life  in  their  hands  and  end  it.  ... 

(Her  head  sinks  on  her  hands,  crossed  on  the  table?) 

SALLY 
( Without^ 

Thank  heaven  you  had  n't  gone  !  The  light!  The 
light !  It  may  have  been  all  a  mistake ! 

(Reentering.) 

Bless  that  poky  elevator !  The  light  to  the  south 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  225 

is  out.    At  the  Garden  there  has  been  no  light. 
Clora,  stir  yourself ! 

(Clora  does  not  move.) 

(Reenter  Wayne  ;  he  sees  that  the  Garden  tower  is  still 
dark.} 

WAYNE 
(To  Sally} 

Those  fellows   over  there  are  my  good  friends. 
They  won't  own  we  're  beaten  —  not  this  week. 

(Sally  goes  to  the  corner  and  looks  toward  the  tower  of  the 
Times.  From  the  Garden  tower  a  flashlight  streams 
northward.} 

SALLY 

(Rushing  to  the  parapet} 
Tony,  look !  North  !  North  ! 
(She  disappears  around  the  corner} 

(Clora  arouses  herself  and  faces  the  tower.} 

WAYNE 
( Weary  and  incredulous} 

They  ought  n't —  they  have  no  right  to  do  that  sort 
of  thing. 

(Reenter  Sally.} 


226  HUSBAND  [ACT  m 

SALLY 
Look !  Here ! 

(Pointing  toward  the  Times.} 

There  seems  to  be  a  light  on  the  far  side  of  the 
tower  —  north ! 

(She  disappears  around  the  corner  and  after  Jier  Wayne. 
Mechanically  Clora  follows.) 

(  While  the  stage  is  empty,  a  low  roar  is  heard  below 

in  'the  direction  of  Madison  Square.   It  takes  form  in 

concerted  shouting  and  cheering :   "  Wayne,  Wayne, 

Wayne  /  "   On  the  tower  the  letters  blaze  forth  in 

electric  light :    Wayne  /) 

( Wayne  enters  hurriedly  and  looks  over  the  parapet. 
Then  he  comes  forward,  throws  himself  in  a  chair 
beside  the  table  and  covers  his  face  with  his  hands, 
his  shoulders  heaving.  Clora  enters  behind.  Not  see 
ing  her,  Wayne  rises  to  his  full  height,  his  face 
ecstatic?) 

WAYNE 

(Fervently.) 

I  am  alone ;  but  what  is  left  of  my  life  I  give  to 
my  people  —  to  all  true  sons  of  America ! 

(Pause.  The  cheering  swells  again :  "  Wayne,  Wayne, 
Wayne  /  "  //  is  as  if  the  whole  city  in  one  tumultu- 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  227 

ous  roar  were  acclaiming  him.  Wayne,  deeply  moved, 
and  with  a  gesture  almost  grotesque?) 

Thank  God  there  are  those  in  this  land  to  whom 
I  'm  not  husband  ! 

CLORA 

(Tenderly,  maternally.} 

Tony !  Oh,  Tony,  you  great  boy  baby !  You  infant 
absurdity ! 

( With  a  sad  dawning  of  her  old  sense  of  humor,  she 
half  mimics  his  gesture} 

No  one  wants  you  to  be  husband,  Tony  —  not  to 
eighty  million  Americans !  Only  to  me,  Tony.  Be 
any  sort  of  a  husband,  the  worst !  Just  to  me ! 

(Tenderly} 
My  husband ! 

(Enter  Muriel  and  Philip  with  tin  horns  and  watch 
men's  rattles.  Philip  grabs  Wayne  by  the  hand. 
Muriel  throws  herself  2ipon  his  breast} 

WAYNE 

(Embracing  her  warmly} 
Is  n't  it  great  to  be  elected ! 


228  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

PHILIP 

(Puts  his  arm  about  Clora  and  kisses  her.} 
Gee  !  Ain't  it  great  to  be  crazy ! 

(Reaching  into  Philip's  pockets,  Muriel  throws  hand- 
fuls  of  confetti  over  Wayne.  Philip  toots  in  his 
ears.  Mrs.  Jones  grasps  a  tickler  and  sweeps  his 
nose.  Meanwhile  Sally  has  come  round  the  corner 
and  Clora  has  joined  her,  leading  her  down  stage.} 

CLORA 
(In  a  lowered  voice} 

Edmund  ? 

SALLY 

His  eyes  were  full  of  tears.    So  I  left  him. 

CLORA 
Help  him,  do !  You  understand  him  ? 

SALLY 

He's  precisely  like  Alfonso  ! 
(Sally  disappears  round  the  corner} 

(Mrs.  Jones,  Muriel  and  Philip  are  in  animated  talk 
near  the  door.  Wayne  rejoins  Clora  near  the  table.} 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  229 

WAYNE 

(Looking  at  her  squarely?) 

Why  have  you  on  this  old  coat  —  these  violets  ? 

CLORA 
Violets ! 

(She  snatches  them  and  throws  them  on  the  ground?) 
That 's  the  end  of  them  ! 

WAYNE 

(Softening^ 

And  the  coat !  It  was  for  me  you  put  them  on  to 
night  !    You  do  remember  —  their   mingled  per 
fume!  You  remembered  our  first  love,  up  here 
with  the  stars  —  together ! 
(He  picks  up  the  violets,  his  face  tender  with  emotion^ 

CLORA 

No,  stupid,  hush !  It  was  n't  that.  I  don't  want  you 
to  be  in  love !  Just  love  me. 

(Snatching  the  violets,  she  throws  them  vigorously  over 
the  parapet.} 


23o  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

That 's  the  end  of  violets  !  There 's  nothing  in  'em. 
Perfume ! 

(From  a  distance  she  holds  forward  the  lapel  of  her  coat 
towards  his  nose.) 

Smell ! 

(Mrs.  Jones,  beholding  them,  approaches  smiling?) 

Moth-balls,  Tony. 

( With  mounting  excitement^ 

No  violets  for  Clora !  Moth-balls  and  matrimony. 

(A  grimaced) 

Love  's  young  dream  is  o'er ! 

MRS.  JONES 
( Takes  each  by  the  hand,  but  speaks  to  Clora.) 

When  husband  and  wife  quarrel,  it  is  always  the 
fault  of  the  wife. 

WAYNE 

(Smiling.) 

How  about  it,  Kate  the  Curst? 

(Clora  instinctively  bridles?) 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  231 

MRS.  JONES 
(Taking  alarm  at  Clora,  speaks  to  Wayne.} 

But  when  they  've  made  up  —  it  was  the  husband's 
fault. 

WAYNE 

My  fault — mine!  From  to-night  I  shall  have 
no  ambition  that  stands  between  me  and  your 
love. 

(A  silence.  Louder  cheering  is  heard  below.  A  column 
of  men  is  marching  itp  the  avenue  in  lock-step  shout 
ing,  "  Wayne,  Wayne,  W*ayne  /  ") 

They  are  going  to  the  house  to  congratulate  me  ! 

(Instinctively  turning  away  from  Clora,  he  looks  at  his 
watch.  Seeing  the  watch,  Mrs.  Jones  makes  a  face 
of  serio-comic  despair?) 

The  reporters  will  want  to  talk  to  me. 

(Realizing  what  he  has  done,  he  sheepishly  tries  to  get 
his  watch  back  in  his  pocket  unobserved^) 

But  they  can  wait. 

(He  holds  out  both  hands  to  her.) 

This  evening  shall  be  ours  alone  ! 


232  HUSBAND  [ACT  in 

MRS.  JONES 
Bravo,  Tony ! 

CLORA 

(Grasping  him  by  the  shoulder,  takes  out  the  watch.) 
No,  Tony.  Not  a  moment !   Come  !  I'm  your  wife. 
(In  her  old  bossing  manner?) 

We  '11  go  home  to  the  reporters  together.  You  are 
tired  to  death.  Your  throat  needs  spraying. 

(She  opens  his  mouth  and  looks  into  it.) 

You  '11  not  do  a  thing  till  you  've  slept  twelve  hours. 

(She  takes  his  arm  and  leads  him  firmly  toward  the  door.) 

What  luck,  dear  heart,  that    that  poky  elevator 
was  .  .  .  poky! 

WAYNE 
I  had  n't  rung  for  it 

(Boyishly  confidential^) 

I  was  coming  back  to  you  when  Sally  called, 

CLORA 

And  it  's  true?    You  can  take  me  —  shamed  as  I 
am  . 


ACT  in]  HUSBAND  233 

WAYNE 
Sweetheart,  I  love  you  ! 

CLORA 
I  have  cause  to  love  you.  Yes,  as  never  before  ! 

(  Wayne  takes  her  forcibly  in  his  arms.  She  still  turns 
a  shameful  face  from  him.} 

(Philip  and  Muriel  —  who  have  tactfully  stood  apart 
till  now  —  renew  the  attack  and  pursue  them  out  at 
the  door,  amid  showers  of  confetti.) 

(As  they  go  out,  Iffley  enters  and  looks  sadly  and  silently 
after  them.  Sally  follows  sympathetically,  and  stands 
with  her  hand  against  the  corner  of  the  cottage.  Iffley 
takes  out  the  black-bordered  handkerchief  and  blows 
his  nose.  In  Sally's  face,  a  queer  little  smile  breaks 
the  sadness.} 

(As  the  curtain  descends,  the  sound  of  marching  column 
is  heard  in  the  distance :  "  Wayne,  Wayne,  Wayne  !  ") 

(  Wayne's  name  on  the  tower  winks  on  and  off  in  time  to 
the  shouting?) 

THE  END 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

a  tKragrtp  in  <Dne 


PEOPLE    IN   THE   PLAY 

REAL  IMAGINED 

THE  WOMAN  THE  SON 

THE  NURSE  THE  DAUGHTER 

THE  DOCTOR  THE  FATHER 

TIME:  TO-DAY 


SCENE  :  —  The  library  and  sitting-room  of  a  city 
house,  rich  but  simple.  The  ceiling  is  supported  by 
heavy  timbers,  resting  on  carved  corbels.  The  walls 
and  windows  are  hung  with  crimson  brocade. 

The  rear  wall  ranges  diagonally  with  the  front  of 
the  stage.  In  the  centre  of  it  are  two  windows,  over 
looking  the  street,  the  curtains  of  which  are  closed. 
In  the  side  wall,  left,  is  an  English  Renaissance 
fireplace,  the  pyramidal  hood  supported  by  two  sculp 
tured  figures,  a  youth  and  a  maiden,  both  in  classical 
draperies.  A  wood  fire  is  burning  to  embers.  Below 
the  fireplace  is  a  white  marble  pedestal  upholding  the 
portrait  bust  of  a  man  in  the  early  prime  of  life, 
the  head  large  and  firmly  poised  upon  broad,  athletic 
shoulders;  the  face  clean  shaven,  with  features  clear- 
cut,  sensitive,  and  handsome.  Facing  the  fireplace 
diagonally  from  above  is  a  chaise -longiie  with  pil 
lows,  and  beside  it,  against  the  wall,  is  a  carved 
chair  of  stiff,  medieval  design.  There  is  a  door 
down  left  below  the  portrait,  and  down  right  a  draw 
ing-room  table,  dimly  lighted  by  a  lamp. 

In  the  easy  chair  is  a  woman  in  the  late  thirties, 
of  a  sensitive,  psychic  cast,  but  with  still  the  fresh 
ness  and  beauty  of  youth,  suggesting  the  maiden 


238         THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

rather  than  the  matron.   She  is  in  deepest  mourning, 

simple  and  severe.    The  light  from  the  fire,  rich  and 

soft,  shines  npon  her  face. 
In  the  chair  beside  her  is  a  nurse  in  cap  and  apron. 

She  is  in  deep  shadow,  and  at  first  is  scarcely  dis 
cernible. 
Before  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  and  for  some  time  after 

it,  the  Beethoven  Funeral  March  is  heard,  as  if  from 

the  hall  without. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  the  woman  is  lying  back  in  the 

chair  with  her  head  supine,  her  eyes  closed,  and  her 

features  expressionless  and  set. 
Then,  with  a   start,   her  eyes  open,  as  if  she  were 

returning  to   consciousness,  and  she   sits  upright, 

clasping  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

THE  WOMAN 

Have  I  been  asleep  ?  Oh,  how  could  I !  How  could 
you  let  me  ? 

THE  NURSE 
(Rising  out  of  the  gloom  and  gliding  to  the  chair  ^ 

Not  asleep.    Dazed  for  a  moment,  perhaps.    But 
you  needed  rest.  You  have  suffered  so  much. 

THE  WOMAN 
But  he  has  gone,  and  I  did  n't  know  it ! 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        239 

(Her features  contract  to  an  expression  of  'pain ,  simple 
and  large  as  that  of  a  classical  masque.} 

You  promised  if  I  stayed  here,  you  would  tell 
me  ... 

THE  NURSE 

Courage  a  moment,  and  listen !  There !  They  are 
going. 

(A  slow,  weighted  tread,  half  walk,  half  shuffle,  is 
heard  as  if  from  a  marble  entrance-hall  below.} 

THE  WOMAN 
(Speaking  softly,  into  vacancy.} 

Your  friends  are  with  you,  dear  heart — our  friends! 
At  least  you  have  a  comrade's  farewell ! 

(A  pause ;  then,  from  the  street,  the  click  of  opening 
glass  doors.  The  Woman  s  expression  becomes  tense. 
A  louder  click  is  heard  as  the  doors  are  closed.} 

THE  WOMAN 

( With  a  low,  involuntary  cry,  rises,  and  gliding  to 
the  window,  throws  back  the  curtains.  A  flood  of 
sunlight  enters,  from  a  snow-white,  winter  street. 
She  covers  her  eyes  with  her  fingers,  and  cries:} 

Good-by,  my  sweetheart,  forever  good-by  i 


240         THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  NURSE 

(Gliding  quickly  after  her,  closes  the  curtains  and, 
supporting  her  in  her  arms,  leads  her  back  to  the 
chair.) 

Believe  me  :  I  know  !  It  is  better  not ! 

(She  begins  to  stroke  her  forehead,  soothingly ;  then 
suddenly,  in  a  professional  manner,  feels  of  cheek 
and  forearm.} 

THE  WOMAN 
(Catching  her  hand.} 

All  the  long  months  he  was  sick,  you  were  so  good 
to  him  !  I  have  come  to  think  of  you  almost  as  a 
third  in  our  family. 

(The  Nurse,  shifting  her  grasp,  presses  her  fingers  upon 
the  patienfs  inner  wrist,  and  pauses,  while  she  notes 
the  pulse. } 

THE  WOMAN 
(Unconscious  of  this,  speaks  excitedly,  hectically} 

Do  you  remember  how  delirious  he  was,  at  first, 
under  the  shock  of  the  fever  ?  How  he  talked  to 
my  portrait  on  the  wall  —  what  dreadful  things  he 
said  to  it,  for  not  taking  care  of  him  —  so  gravely, 
so  reasonably  !  He  never  noticed  me  at  the  bed- 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        241 

side,  never  knew  the  little  I  was  able  to  do  for  him 
—  and  he  had  always  been  so  clear-headed,  so 
kind.  I  pretended  to  laugh  at  it,  but  it  hurt  me.  In 
all  the  years  we  were  married,  he  had  never  found 
fault  with  me ! 

THE  NURSE 

(Still  in  her  professional  manner,  releasing  the 
wrist.) 

I  understand.  Now  you  must  be  still. 

THE  WOMAN 

I  have  been  still  so  long.  And  when  I  am  still,  I 
am  thinking  —  thinking !  If  I  can  talk,  is  n't  it 
better  ? 

THE  NURSE 

(Smiling  lightly,  as  she  shakes  down  a  clinical  ther 
mometer.} 

This  is  one  way  to  make  folks  quiet. 

(She places  itbeneath  the  Woman  s  tongue.  The  Woman, 
with  tJie  tube  held  tight  between  her  lips,  smiles 
wryly  at  the  Nurse.  TJie  Nurse  slips  behind  her  and 
out  of  the  door,  and  is  heard  in  the  hall,  calling  for 
a  number  at  the  telephone.  Presently  she  returns, 


242         THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

takes   the  thermometer,   reads   the  record  with  an 
averted  look  of  dismay,  and  says :) 

I  have  some  things  to  do  for  a  moment.  Perhaps 
I  had  better  leave  you. 

THE  WOMAN 
( With  a  little  moan.) 

Oh,  I  can't  be  left  —  alone.  Not  yet!  Did  you  hear 
what  they  said  —  the  people  in  black  —  as  we  came 
in  through  the  hall  ? 

( The  Nurse  nods  absently?) 

They  said,  "It  is  harder,  so  much  harder  for  her. 

A  woman  who  has  children  is  never  quite  alone." 

I  am  alone  —  I  have  no  children.  But  how oh, 

how  could  they  say  that ! 

THE  NURSE 
(Grave,  yet  matter-of-fact^ 

You  must  be  quiet.    The  Doctor  will  be  here  by 
and  by. 

THE  WOMAN 
( With  a  start^ 

You  mean  I  have  taken  the  fever  —  his  fever  ? 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS         243 

THE  NURSE 
( With  assumed  confidence.) 

No.  It  is  only  that  you  are  worn  out.  You  were 
always  careful. 

THE  WOMAN 

But  toward  the  end,  when  all  hope  was  gone,  I 
didn't  do  the  things  you  told  me.  I  didn't 
care.  And  I  don't  care.  I  can't  live  out  my  life 

—  alone ! 

(The  Nurse  places  a  light  silk  pillow  behind  her  head, 
as  she  is  speaking,  loosens  her  bodice,  and  shakes  out 
the  masses  of  her  hair.) 

THE  WOMAN 

I  told  you  he  never  found  fault  with  me.  But  there 
was  one  thing  about  which  he  was  so  much  worse. 
Do  you  think  it 's  wrong  —  there  are  no  children? 
I  had  an  excuse.  Oh,  I  did  have  an  excuse !  It 
was  my  work.  From  a  child  I  had  loved  it.  Per 
haps  you  don't  understand  what  fun  it  is  to  make 
beautiful  things  that  are  all  your  own  ?  My  master 

—  and  he  was  one  of  the  greatest  living  sculptors 

—  said  I  had  talent,  and  took  me,  a  mere  girl,  as 


244        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

his  pupil !  Then  he  wanted  to  marry  me,  and  I  said 

no  —  until  .  .  . 

(Her  voice  cJiokes,  and  she  smiles  in  pain) 

until  he  promised  there  should  be  no  children  to 
come  between  me  and  my  work. 

( The  telephone  rings,  and  the  Nurse  slips  into  the  hall ) 
Nurse  !  Where  are  you  ? 

THE  NURSE 

(Speaking  without,  from  the  telephone?) 
I  'm  listening !  I  know —  you  don't  need  to  tell  me 
-that  you  were  happy. 

(She  pauses,  and  when  the  Woman  speaks  again,  goes 
on  talking  in  a  low  voice  without.  Scattered  ^vords 
are  heard.  "  She  is  worn  out"  "  Her  heart  is  none 
too  strong"  etc.) 

THE  WOMAN 

At  first  we  were  happy.  And  when  you  are  happy, 
you  are  so  much  happier  than  ever  you  could  have 
imagined!  Then  I  began  to  notice  things — he 
was  so  strangely  interested  in  all  our  friends'  chil 
dren.  And  when  I  was  there,  he  sometimes  looked 
at  me  so  thoughtfully !  I  like  children,  too,  but  he 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS         245 

always  seemed  to  be  saying  to  himself  that  I 
did  n't,  that  I  could  n't  —  that  I  was  something  a 
woman  ought  not  to  be.  You  don't  have  to  have 
children,  do  you,  in  order  to  like  them?  And  don't 
you  think  every  one  has  a  right  to  be  what  he  cares 
for,  what  he  is  f  I  could  n't  help  it,  that  other  things 
were  more  important.  He  never  reproached  me  — 
never  even  said  a  word !  But  that  only  made  it 
worse.  It  was  as  if  he  could  rit  tell  me  what  he 
thought  of  me.  That  seemed  disloyal.  It  hurt  me 
beyond  bearing.  But  he  said,  so  tenderly,  that  he 
had  n't  meant  it  so,  and  reminded  me  that  he  had 
given  his  promise.  His  promise!  Between  those 
who  love  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  promise. 

(She  pauses  and  listens?) 

(The  Nurse  is  still  speaking  at  the  telephone.    "Yes ; 
this  morning.  At  once,  if  you  can"  etc.) 

THE  WOMAN 

Can  you  hear  me  ?   My  pulse  beats  so  loud  in  my 
temples  !   There  is  n't  another  soul  in  the  world  I 
could  tell  this  to,  and  be  sure  she  'd  understand. 
You  saw  him  —  as  he  was  ! 
(Her  voice  catches,  and  she  is  silent?) 


246        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

(The  Nurse  reenters  and  stands  irresolute  behind  the 
chair.} 

THE  WOMAN 
(Her feverish  imptdse  prevailing. ) 

The  figures  beside  the  fireplace,  there  —  do  you 
think  them  pretty  ?  You  see  the  idea  ?  The  boy  is 
Youth,  and  the  girl  is  Love  !  —  strength  and  affec 
tion  guarding  the  fires  of  home.  People  have  said 

it  isn't  bad.    But  I  don't  care  for  it  any  more 

nor  for  any  of  my  work.  It  all  seems  —  you  under 
stand  what  I  mean  !  —  so  much  like  the  work  of  a 
woman.  Except  his  portrait  over  there.  That  is  the 
one  thing  I  have  done  worth  while.  It  is  strong — 
alive.  It  is  the  dear  lad  himself — quiet,  intelli 
gent,  brave.  The  eyes  —  do  you  think  they  are 
sad?  Some  of  his  friends  said  they  were.  But  I 
must  have  seen  that  look  in  them,  or  why  should 
I  put  it  there  ? 

(She  pauses,  as  if  groping  with   a  new  idea;  then 
speaks  in  sudden  surprise  and  pain.} 

Do  you  think  he  looks  at  me  so  sadly  because 
there  is  one  great  thing  in  which  I  failed  ?  It  must 
be.  That  is  it !  If  I  had  only  known.  Perhaps,  in 
my  heart,  I  did  know !  I  tried  to  justify  myself. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        247 

My  work  —  !  I  soon  found  that,  compared  to  him, 
I  had  never  really  cared  for  it.  Then  I  told  myself 
that  the  duty  toward  children  —  even  the  love  of 
them  —  would  make  me  less  to  him.  So  often  I 
have  seen  just  that  happen  —  and  with  people  who 
are  fondest  of  each  other.  Children  come  between 
them  and  make  them  —  different  from  what  they 
were.  The  love  of  their  youth — their  first,  best  love  ! 
—  fades  and  is  gone.  I  was  jealous  of  the  mere  idea 
of  them.  You  think  it  strange.  But  I  was  —  jeal 
ous  !  And  then  —  I  might  have  died.  Oh,  do  you 
suppose  he  thought  me  only  selfish  —  afraid  ? 

THE  NURSE 
( With  resolution} 
Come,  dear  —  to  bed. 

THE  WOMAN 

I  'm  not  as  ill  as  that.  Only  my  head  aches.  To 
bed !  I  can't  Oh,  I  can't  go  there  now,  ever — 
ever! 

(  With  gentle  strength,  tJie  Nurse  tries  to  raise  her  and 
lead  her  to  the  door.  She  resists  convulsively,  and 
shrinks  back  into  the  chair.} 


248        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  WOMAN 
Not  yet !    Not  till  he  too  is  at  rest ! 

THE  NURSE 
( Wrinkling  her  forehead  professionally} 

The  Doctor  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  We  shall 
do  what  he  says. 

(She  takes  her  post  behind  the  chair.} 

THE  WOMAN 
(Her  fevered  strain  gradually  heightening} 

Instead  of  showing  me  how  wrong  I  was,  he  made 
fun  of  me.  When  I  questioned  him,  he  said  it  would 
be  less  trouble  to  have  a  child  and  then  forget  it,  as 
other  people  did.  If  he  had  thought  me  so  dreadfully 
wrong,  he  could rit  have  spoken  like  that?  But  it 
weighed  on  my  mind,  and  I  kept  questioning  him. 
He  made  a  joke  of  pretending  it  had  already  been 
born — you  know  how  full  he  was  of  make-believe 
and  nonsense !  Whenever  I  spoke  of  it,  he  asked 
about  its  clothes.  He  said  they  might  be  cut  on  the 
bias,  but  it  would  be  dangerous  if  they  were  gored. 

(She  laughs,  a  little  hysterically,  and  the  Nurse  shows 
alarm} 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        249 

THE  WOMAN 

I  gave  the  baby  his  name :  not  the  name  I  called  him 
by — his  real  name.  By  and  by  he  said  he  wished 
James  were  a  girl.  For  three  years,  he  said,  he  had 
liked  girls  best.  We  had  only  been  married  three 
years.  So  I  invented  a  girl,  and  we  called  her 
my  name  —  my  real  name,  you  know,  Elizabeth  ! 
That  was  sixteen  years  ago.  We  used  to  talk  about 
their  toys,  their  frocks ;  of  sending  them  to  school 
and  college  —  all  that!  You  must  have  noticed 
what  fun  he  was  to  talk  to  —  how  alive  and  vivid 
he  made  even  nonsense  seem.  The  children  were 
almost  as  real  as  if  they  had  been  born. 

(She  is  silent  a  moment,  a  smile  breaking  through  the 
hectic  flush  on  her  face.  Then  she  cries  out:) 

Do  you  suppose  they  are  dead?  They  were  born 
in  his  heart,  and  lived  there.  Did  they  die  too  ? 
Am  I  all  alone  ? 

(Her  body  sinks  to  her  knees  with  a  moan,  her  forehead 
resting  on  her  outstretched  wrists) 

(In  the  shadowy  corner  by  the  mantel,  standing  close 
beside  the  sculptured  figure  of  Youth,  appears  the 
white  form  of  a  boy,  who  closely  resembles  it.  Timidly, 
it  floats  forward  and  lays  one  hand  in  hers) 


250        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  WOMAN 

(  With  a  convulsive  shudder,  sJie  speaks  as  though 
with  an  effort  of  will,  her  face  still  hidden  between 
Jier  wrists} 

You  are  cold,  Nurse.   How  small  your  hands  are  ! 

THE  SON 

(In  a  voice  which,  though  youthful,  is  strange,  un 
worldly  and  sad.  ) 

It  is  not  the  Nurse. 

(He  shrinks  back  into  the  shadoiv  of  the  mantel,  yet 
still  holds  a  pale  hand  out  to  her.} 


THE  WOMAN 

(Looks  up  aghast,  and  then,  in  an  awed  whisper} 
Is  it  you  ! 

THE  SON 
Yes!  It  is  I! 

THE  WOMAN 

(Shrinking,  and  crying  out  in  alarm} 
No  !  No  !    It  is  not  you  !    Only  my  fever  makes  me 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        251 

think  I  see  you.   Go  away,  please.    Do  go  away ! 
It  can't  be  you.   You  have  never  been  born ! 

(She  turns  to  the  Nurse,  her  eyes  wild  and  beseeching.] 
You  don't  see  anything  —  there ! 

THE  NURSE 

No,  dear.   There  is  nothing.    Look  again.  It  has 
gone! 

THE  SON 

(Standing  forth  resolutely  from  the  shadow,  so  that  he 
is  seen  clearly  in  every  line.) 

It  isl\  I  who  have  never  been  born  ! 

(On  the  other  side  of  the  mantel,  close  beside  the  figure 
of  Love,  a  girl  appears,  draped  like  the  sculpture, 
though  with  curious  little  alterations  that  give  the 
gown  a  modern  look] 

THE  DAUGHTER 
And  I !  Our  father —  where  is  he  ? 

THE  SON 

(Stern,  almost  accusing] 
Where  is  our  father  ? 


252        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  WOMAN 
Your  father? 

(Sobbing.} 

He  is  dead ! 

( The  children  cry  out,  in  a  little  wail  of  anguish?) 

THE  WOMAN 
You  loved  him  ? 

(She  sobs,  and  then,  with  a  strange,  sudden  smile,  al 
most  happy  in  the  thought?) 

You  loved  him,  too  ? 

THE  NURSE 

(Shaking  her  gently  by  the  shoulder,  and  again  trying 
to  lead  her  away,} 

My  dear,  be  comforted.  Come !  It  is  nothing.  Only 
your  own  imagination ! 

THE  WOMAN 
(Resisting  with  convulsive  vigor} 

They  are  his  children.  They  have  come  to  comfort 
me  —  to  be  with  me,  now  and  always ! 
(Her  voice  rises,  as  if  in  joy} 
They  loved  him,  too  ! 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        253 

THE  SON 

(Looking  toward  the  daughter.} 
No  !  We  did  n't  love  him. 
(Sadly  the  girl  shakes  her  head.} 

(The  Nurse,  taking  her  stand  behind  the  chair,  places  a 
hand  on  the  Woman  s  shoulder,  and  waits,  looking 
out  of  the  door  anxiously,  from  time  to  time,  for  the 
Doctor} 

THE  WOMAN 

(Grieved,  yet  uncomprehending} 
You  did  n't  love  him  ?  You  hated  him  ? 

THE  SON 

Don't  you  understand  ?  We  can't  either  love  or 
hate.  All  we  can  do  is  to  want  him,  and  want  you. 

THE  DAUGHTER 
(Lamenting} 

How  we  wanted  you  ! 

THE  SON 

But  we  've  never  been  born.  And  now  —  now  we 
never  can  be.  Oh,  Mother! 


254        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  WOMAN 
(Startled  by  the  word.) 
Yes !  I  am  your  mother ! 

THE  SON 
(Almost  sternly.) 
Why  could  n't  we  be  .  .  .  ? 

THE  WOMAN 

(With  the  excuse  of  self-accusation.) 
I  had  my  work  to  do. 

( With  a  slow  glance,  she  indicates  the  marbles  of  the 
mantel,  and  then  the  portrait  beyond?) 

THE  SON 
(Looks  at  them,  uncomprehending,  disdainful?) 

Are  they  why  you  could  n't  ...     What  good  are 
they? 

THE  WOMAN 

( Without  conviction,  yet  hurt.) 
They  were  meant  to  be  beautiful. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        255 

THE  SON 
Can  they  walk  ?  Can  they  run  ? 

THE  WOMAN 
(Puzzled.) 

No. 

THE  DAUGHTER 
Are  they  warm  ? 

THE  WOMAN 
No,  dear ! 
(She  smiles  with  maternal  indulgence.} 

THE  SON 
(Conclusively.} 

Then  they  are  like  us.  They  have  never  been 
born. 

THE  DAUGHTER 

(Coming  forth  eagerly,  as  she  speaks,  from  the  shadow} 
If  they  only  had  been,  they  might  have  been  very 
beautiful !  How  beautiful  father  was !  And  you 


256         THE  FORBIDDEN   GUESTS 

know,  even  though  I  have  n't  been  born,  I  look 
like  him  ! 

(Abashed  at  what  she  has  said,  she  catches  her  face  in 
her  hands,  and  shrinks  back  into  the  shadow.) 

THE  SON 

Even  we  are  better  than  they  are !  We  can  move 
about.  Sometimes  I  pretend  I  can  walk  —  and 
run !  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  could  !  Do  you  remem 
ber,  mother,  when  you  saw  the  football  clothes  in 
the  shop-window,  and  thought  of  getting  them 
for  me  ? 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes,  yes!  I  remember.  Would  you  like  to  play 
football  —  you  ? 

THE  SON 
(Proudly.} 

Father  played.  I  might  have  played  too  !  At  least 
you  would  have  told  me  all  about  him.  You  used 
to  talk  of  us,  but  you  never  thought,  either  of 
you,  of  talking  to  us !  He  might  have  told  us  sto 
ries  !  —  About  the  run  he  made  ;  how  he  plunged 
through  the  centre,  threw  off  the  backs,  and  ran 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        257 

fifty  yards  down  the  field  to  goal.  At  the  great 
games,  they  still  speak  of  it.  When  he  struck  the 
line,  he  tore  a  great  hole  in  the  centre  of  it.  I  'm 
big  as  he  was  at  my  age,  but  I  can't  do  it.  When 
I  strike  the  line,  I  go  through  it,  as  he  did.  Only 
nobody  knows  it. 

(The  Woman  leans  forward  with  a  smile,  but  when 
she  makes  as  if  to  speak,  she  is  dumb,  and  the  smile 
freezes  on  her  lips.) 

THE  SON 
(Eagerly.) 

And  then  there  was  the  war.  Father  used  to  be  in 
the  Squadron ;  and  once,  when  you  saw  it  march 
ing  to  the  train,  you  wondered  how  you  would 
feel  if  I  were  going  with  them.  I  was  there !  I 
marched  all  the  way  !  That  is  — 

(With  the  manner  of  scrupulous  truth) 
I  went  with  them.  And  I  did  all  I  could  to  help 
them.   But  it  was  nothing.  I  could  n't  march.   I 
could  n't  fight.  If  I  could  even  have  died,  it  would  n't 
matter  so  much  that  I  've  never  been  born. 

(The  Woman  makes  as  if  to  cry  out;  bitt  no  sound 
comes,  and  her  smile  changes  to  a  contortion,  almost 
a  grin,  of  'pain .) 


258         THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  DAUGHTER 

(  Who  has  come  diffidently  forward  while  the  son  was 
speaking. ) 

And  there  was  the  doll  at  the  bazaar.  I  might 
have  loved  it  so  hard.  It 's  name  was  Jemimah. 

THE  WOMAN 
(A  cry,  almost  of  happiness,  breaking  from  her.) 

I  remember  it.  I  remember !  It  looked  as  if  its  name 
was  Jemimah! 

THE  DAUGHTER 

And  then  the  gowns  —  such  pretty  gowns  you  've 
imagined  for  me. 

(Her  shyness  vanishes.  She  comes  forward,  stoops,  and 
taking  her  draperies  in  her  fingers,  holds  them  du 
biously  forth.) 

Do  you  think  this  looks  like  a  party  gown  ?  I  'd 
rather  have  it  a  riding-habit.  I  should  have  liked 
horses  better  than  dancing.  But  you  know  it  had 
to  be  white. 

THE  WOMAN 

( With  affectionate  simulation^) 
It 's  as  lovely  a  party  gown  as  ever  I  saw ! 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        259 

THE  DAUGHTER 
'  (Still  dubious.} 

I  was  afraid  it  might  still  look  as  if  it  were  only  to 
sleep  in  —  in  the  grave. 
(Her face  slowly  lighting  with  happiness.) 
Is  it  really  a  party  gown  ? 

(She    smiles  joyously,   and  floats   quite   out   to  her 
mother  s  knee.) 

THE  WOMAN 

My  daughter  !  Oh,  my  daughter ! 
(She  clutches  the  slender  figure  in  her  arms) 
How  soft  you  are,  and  cool  —  restful,  comforting ! 
There  never  was  anything  half  so  sweet. 

THE  DAUGHTER 

(  Whispering  eagerly  into  her  ear) 
And  you  don't  think  my  gown  would  seem  strange 
to  Mr.  Rowland  Blake  ?  It  is  n't  such  a  queer  gown? 

THE  WOMAN 
(Mystified.) 

Mr.  Rowland  Blake? 


26o        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  DAUGHTER 

His  father,  you  know,  is  one  of  the  men  who  just 
now  took  away  our  father. 

THE  WOMAN 
You  mean  Roley ! 

THE  DAUGHTER 

I  should  n't  dare  call  him  that.  But  if  I  had  been 
born,  he  would  have  let  me  love  him.  I  was  meant 
to  be  his.  That  is  why  he  has  always  been  so  shy 
—  and  does  such  dreadful  things.  You  mustn't 
blame  him.  He  has  no  mother,  you  know  —  and 
not  even  me  to  love  him.  Often  I  am  with  him. 
But  he  can't  see.  Do  you  think  I  might  ask  him 
not  to  be  bad  —  for  me  ?  Are  you  sure  he  would  n't 
think  this  such  a  queer  gown  ? 

(The  Woman  lays  her  face  on  her  daughters  neck,  and 
sobs  freely,  with  abundant  tears.) 

THE  SON 

(Coming  forward  also,  and  holding  her  hand,) 
It's  the  same  with  me.    I  should  have  loved  Jack. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS         261 

THE  WOMAN 


(Again  mystified.) 
Jack? 


THE  SON 


Jacqueline  Convers!  Her  father,  too,  has  gone 
with  ours.  She  was  meant  for  me.  But  I  had  to 
stand  by  and  let  her  marry  Tinkering.  Of  all  the 
fellows  —  think  of  it  —  Pinkering!  I  tried  so  hard 
to  tell  her  she  was  mine.  But  I  could  n't !  And 
already,  when  she  is  alone  —  except  that  I  am 
there  —  she  sobs  all  day,  just  as  you  are  sobbing. 
And  now  it 's  too  late  for  me  ever  .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
Oh,  my  son  !  My  daughter ! 

THE  SON 

Often  we  hoped  —  when  father  whispered  to  you 
—  held  you  so  warm  in  his  arms  .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
(Releasing  them,  and  covering  her  ears  with  her  palms?) 

Don't,  don't !  You  don't  know  what  you  are  say 
ing  !  But  it  is  true.  Yes !  Even  as  I  loved  him,  I 


262         THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

hated  you,  was  jealous  of  you  —  of  our  children 
whom  the  world  needs  so  much,  who  have  so 
much  need  of  the  world !  Always  he  knew  that. 
And  always  it  came  between  our  love ! 

(She  starts  forward,  gazing  in  contrition  at  the  sculp 
tured  portrait?) 

(The  children  shrink  back  from  her.) 

(As  she  gases,  the  form  of  her  husband  appears,  stand 
ing  close  beside  the  portrait,  and  like  it,  looks  at  her 
gravely,  austerely.) 

THE  WOMAN 
Jeemie,  ah,  sweetheart!    Don't  look  at  me  so  ! 

THE  FATHER 

( Turns  from  her,  and  reaches  out  his  hands  to  the 
children,  his  face  still  grave,  yet  lighting  with  in 
ward  happiness^ 

You  can  come  to  me  now  —  at  last ! 

THE  WOMAN 

Me,  sweetheart!  Oh,  come  to  me!  Don't  turn 
against  me  now!  Be  good  to  me!  If  you  can't 
love  me  any  more,  just  be  good  to  me. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        263 

THE  FATHER 
(Not  heeding  her.} 

My  son !  My  daughter ! 

THE  DAUGHTER 
(Lowers  her  eyes.) 

No  !  Not  now ! 

THE  SON 

(Shakes  his  head,  and  half  lifts  a  forbidding  palm.) 
You  should  have  been  our  father  ! 

THE  FATHER 

(Surprised,  yet  pleading  tenderly?) 
'Lis'beth ! 

THE  WOMAN 

No,  no  !  That  is  my  name  ! 
(Freezing) 
Her  name  is  Elizabeth. 

THE  FATHER 

(Still  unheeding,  turns,  pleading  to  the  son.) 
Jeemie  —  come ! 


264        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

THE  WOMAN 
( With  a  cry  of  pain) 

You,  you  are  Jeemie,  my  Jeemie,  my  sweetheart, 
my  comrade !  Oh,  come  to  me !  Comfort  me  ! 
(An  outburst  ofjealottsy) 

They  ?  They  are  nothing !  They  have  never  been 
born  ! 

(The  Father  bends  his  eyes  on  her,  stern  and  accusing, 
but  says  nothing) 

THE  WOMAN 

(In  a  sudden  revulsion,  an  access  of  contrition,  slips 
from  the  Nurse,  throws  herself  forward,  and  kneels 
on  the  floor) 

Forgive  me  —  oh,  forgive  me  !  I  won't  be  jealous 
any  more.  Give  them  our  own  dear  names —  give 
them  everything.  Give  them  all  our  love  !  Yet  — 
be  good  to  me.  If  you  will  only  be  kind  ! 

(The  Father  remains  immovable.  She  turns  to  the 
children) 

My  son,  my  daughter !  Go  to  him  !  Love  him ! 
You  don't  understand.  It  was  my  fault  —  all  mine  ! 
But  don't,  don't  make  him  hate  me  ! 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS         265 

(The  Nurse  has  come  forward  and  now  sits  on  the  foot 
of  the  chair,  and  holds  her  firmly,  a  hand  on  each 
shoulder.} 

THE  WOMAN 

(A  smile  spreading  upon  her  hectic  cheeks,  at  once  ten 
der  and  full  of  guile) 

The  stories,  you  remember,  my  son,  about  football, 
and  the  things  that  happened  in  the  Squadron ! 
He  will  tell  you !  Once  he  was  shot  by  a  striker, 
and  then  they  met  in  the  hospital,  and  became 
friends  !  It  is  such  an  amusing  story,  and  so  dear  ! 

THE  FATHER 
(Moving  toward  his  son.} 
Come  to  me,  lad. 

THE  SON 
(Shrinking  from  him.) 

That  was  when  you  were  among  the  living.  Now 
you  are  only  a  ghost,  like  us.  And  you  were  born  ! 

THE  WOMAN 

(In  her  struggle  against  her  pain,  the  look  of  inward 
guile  has  grown  deeper.  She  turns  to  her  daughter.) 


266        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

He  and  Roley  were  the  dearest  friends !  He  can 
tell  you  all  about  him.  You  were  made  to  be  com 
rades,  you  and  your  father !  He  loves  you  so  .  %  . 

(She  struggles  a  moment  against  jealousy,  and  then, 
conquering) 

so  that  I  give  him  to  you.  Love  him !  Be  good  to 
him  —  even  if  you  take  him  away  from  me  ! 

THE  DAUGHTER 
(Wistfully.) 

It  might  have  been. 

THE  SON 

(  With  an  air  of  forbidding  dignity.) 
But  now  he  is  dead. 

THE  DAUGHTER 
(Disconsolate.) 

And  we  ...  we  can  .  .  .  never  .  .  . 
( The  children  float  back  into  the  shadows  of  the  mantel?) 

THE  SON 
(Sadly.) 

Never  .      .  never  .      .  for  all  time. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        267 

THE  DAUGHTER 
( With  a  little  wail.) 
Forever  .  .  .  forever  .  .  . 

THE  SON 
Always,  to  eternity  .  .  . 

( They  disappear,  but  can  still  be  heard,  repeating  the 
words  "Never  .  .  .forever" ;  their  voices ',  now 
waxing,  now  waning,  become  distant.} 

THE  CHILDREN 
(  With  a  last  shrinking  cry.) 
Eternity  is  cold  ...     Oh  !     Cold  1 
(They  are  heard  no  more.) 

THE  FATHER 
(No  longer  sad,  only  austere  and  accusing!) 

You  reproached   them — you  /  —  that  they  have 
never  been  born ! 

THE  WOMAN 
(In  an  agony.) 
I  am  in  sin  —  in  shame !  But  that  is  why  I  need 


268         THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

you  —  need  you  as  never  before !  All  your  life  you 
knew  my  sin  ;  yet  you  shielded  me,  forgetting  your 
own  dearest  wish  —  shielded  me  from  knowing  it 
was  sin.  Help  me  now ! 

THE  FATHER 

Shielded  you!  You  knew  it — always  knew  it. 
There  was  never  a  day,  not  an  hour,  that  you  did 
not  fight  with  your  heart  to  kill  the  sense  of  your 
shame. 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes,  yes.  It  is  true !  But  it  was  because  I  loved 
you  so  much.  Our  life  —  it  was  you  who  used  to 
say  it  —  was  all  beauty,  all  passion  and  tenderness. 
Oh,  how  can  you  torture  me  ? 

THE  FATHER 

Yes!  You  loved  me  —  so  much  that  you  killed 
our  love. 

THE  WOMAN 

But  it  was  you,  dear,  it  was  you  I  loved.  Look ! 
(She  points  to  the  sculpture  beside  him.) 
This  is  our  child.  I  made  it.  In  this  you  live  for- 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        269 

ever,  forever  young  and  beautiful  —  and  I  live 
with  you  I 

THE  FATHER 

It  was  in  this  that  you  killed  me,  and  killed  your 
self. 

THE  WOMAN 

Oh,  I  don't  understand ! 

THE  FATHER 

You  never  understood.  You  thought  we  loved  — 
were  happy.  Our  love  was  sterile,  vain.  You 
were  a  thief  in  happiness.  You  stole  the  flower  of 
life,  and  blighted  the  fruit.  Your  country  gave 
you  its  best  —  beauty,  strength,  love.  You  took  it 
all,  and  gave  your  country  no  return.  You  have 
killed  us  both.  You  are  dead  forever,  as  I  am. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Crying  out  in  agony.) 

Dead !  Oh,  if  I  only  were,  I  might  go  with  you  — 
love  you  still.  I  am  alive,  and  all  alone !  Only  be 
good  to  me !  I  know  you  don't  love  me  —  can't 
ever  love  me.  Yet  you  were  always  kind.  Look  at 
me  kindly,  sweetheart  —  once,  only  once,  before 


270        THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS 

you  go.    Give  me  one  little  word  to  take  me  down 
to  the  grave ! 

(The  Father  moves  backward  from  her  toward  the 
marble  image.  His  body  gives  forth  a  strange  light, 
as  if  the  effulgence  of  strength  and  purity,  but  his 
eyes  are  still  austere,  accusing?) 

THE  WOMAN 

Your  eyes,  dear !  Don't  look  at  me  so  I 
(The  eyes  do  not  change?} 

Oh,  where  shall  I  go  away  from  them  ?  Your  lips, 
my  sweetheart !  Your  lips  are  still  mine  ! 

( With  convulsive  strength,  she  leaps  from  the  grasp  of 
the  Nurse,  and  throws  herself  towards  him.  But  in 
the  instant  the  light  vanishes,  and  he  is  gone.  She 
embraces  the  marble.} 

Your  lips  are  cold.  Stone  cold  —  as  they  were  in 
the  coffin ! 

(She  utters  a  cry  of  horror.  Her  knees  give  way,  but 
she  still  clings  to  the  sculptured  portrait.  It  totters 
and  falls.  The  marble  shatters  on  the  hearthstone?) 

(The  Nurse  quickly  kneels  beside  her.) 

( The  Doctor,  who  has  just  entered,  stands  horrified, 
then  hastens  forward?) 


THE  FORBIDDEN  GUESTS        271 

THE  DOCTOR 
She  is  delirious? 

THE  NURSE 

(Stripping  open  her  bodice.) 
Quick !  Her  heart  is  failing. 

THE  DOCTOR 

(Kneels  and  applies  an  instrument.) 
She  is  dead. 
(Both  stand  apart  from  the  body  in  horror.) 

(The  crash  of  the  marble  has  broken  apart  the  embers. 
Their  dying  fires  light  up  the  form  of  the  Woman, 
lying  amid  fragments  of  the  portrait) 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


expiration   of  loan   period.      apphcatlon  *»  made  before 


5  1930 

IB? 


31569 


'• 


2112 


